Lawrence Leroy “Butch” Butcher passed away. Quietly. Just like he lived. January 8, 1933 to June 21, 2025. Ninety-two years on this Earth and none wasted. He was part of that old Klamath guard—the kind of man who didn’t boast, backed down, always had a wrench, a pocketknife, or a piece of advice on hand.…

When I was a boy, I used to think getting old meant you could finally eat dessert first and swear in front of children without consequence. It turns out it means making new noises every time you stand and forgetting why you came into the kitchen, even though it seemed important at the time. Now,…

It was a rainy afternoon in Eureka, Cal., where the clouds settled like they bought property and planned to stay. Barbara Webster and her mother had taken refuge in the warm, pie-scented embrace of Marie Callender’s, a place that still believed in tablecloths, proper whipped cream, and a pot of coffee that never runs dry.…

It started innocently enough—just another morning here at the edge of nowhere, where the cows moo louder than the Internet signal, and the rooster still thinks he runs the place. I was brewing coffee so strong it could refinish furniture when I heard the whir of the printer upstairs. That alone was odd–since I hadn’t…

Driving south along Pyramid Highway the other day, I shook my head at what used to be and what’s become. Now, I try not to turn every drive into a lecture on modern decay, but it’s hard to keep quiet when a place you knew as bare bones and barbed wire now looks brushed over…

You never really know the last time you’ll see someone. Sure, folks say that a lot, but it doesn’t sink in until you’re flipping through the news and a name hits you like a rake to the shin. Tina Wu. Gone. Tina had an office a few doors down from mine when we both worked…

My longest earthly friend, Goldie Arnold, had a Dad who reminded me of President Abe Lincoln, tall and gangly, minus the beard or top hat. His name was John Arnold, but I called him “Mr. Arnold” like he was the only one. He had a slower way of talking–like the words had to hike uphill…

I wish I could say I don’t get riled up much anymore, but at least it ain’t like when I was young and had a head full of hair. These days, I mostly save my energy for keeping track of Post-it notes and remembering where I put my glasses—usually on my head or, once, in…

Back when I was about knee-high to a washtub and full of more opinions than sense, there was an unwritten rule in our neck of the woods–you could talk about the weather, the price of feed, or how the neighbor’s milk cow had a nervous breakdown—but you did not, under any circumstances, talk politics, sex,…

I was about five years old when I first held a frog–a big mottled thing, cold as a well-rope and twice as slippery. It leaped out of my hands like it was shot from a cannon and landed square in Cousin Janice’s cereal bowl. Milk went flying. She cried. Mom swatted at me with the…