When I was younger, I dressed like an older man. Slacks, starched shirts, and suspenders–not because I needed to hold anything up, but because I wanted people to think I was serious–about what I never figured out. I just knew I had a deep need to be mistaken for someone important. Nowadays, I’m in my…

When I was a kid, fog made me uneasy. Not the high-up kind that clings to the Redwood trees like cotton batting or the sort that softens the world at sunrise. No, I’m talking about ground fog—the low-lying kind that creeps in on cat feet, like that poem says, and settles itself across the yard…

Some folks say you’ve got to be a little off your rocker to live way out here where the rattlesnakes outnumber the neighbors and the postman delivers on a “maybe” schedule, and I won’t disagree. You have to be either fiercely independent or mildly insane, and I’ve always prided myself on being both. Now, I’ve…

Have you ever noticed that the loudest guy in the room often has the least to say? I’ve met enough folks in my time to know that volume and virtue don’t always ride in the same pickup truck. Take ol’ Buck Prentiss. He worked the counter at the hardware store back when folks still paid…

I admit it. I’m feeling homesick for childhood again. Happens every so often, usually when the bees start droning louder than my thoughts and the flag starts flapping just right in the July wind. It’s the kind of homesickness that has nothing to do with a house and everything to do with memory—sweaty knees in…

I don’t remember exactly when I started thinking for myself, but I do remember the first time it got me into trouble. I was about eight years old, sitting in Catechism next to Jimmy, who smelled like peanut butter and jelly. The teacher was explaining how Jonah had survived three days inside the belly of…

When I was seven years old, I wanted to be Muhammad Ali. Not a real boxer, mind you–not like those wiry fellas who could take a punch and keep grinning–but a pretend one. I blame my Grandpa. He let me watch Ali fight Ernie Terrell on his black-and-white TV one Monday night in February–and by…

There’s a sign in our kitchen that reads: “A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.” It was a gift from a cousin, who insists on giving folks decor with sassy sayings, whether they want ‘em or not. I tried to protest when she handed it to me, but she raised one eyebrow like Grandma…

Every time I see Randy, he’s wearing a different T-shirt with a smart-aleck saying on it. And I don’t mean just a little “World’s Okayest Golfer” kind of thing. I’m talkin’ full-on philosophy printed in white block letters across a size-too-tight cotton tee that usually looks like it came straight from the bottom of his…