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There was a time when 25 cents could measure the value of the world.

Now, I don’t mean to sound like a relic—you know, one of those grumbly old fossils you find on a front porch swing warning kids not to grow up too fast—but I do remember when being rich meant standing in front of the penny candy counter with a quarter clutched in your sweaty little hand. And let me tell you, that quarter felt like Fort Knox melted down and pressed into a single coin just for me.

My favorite place was the Woodland Villa, a narrow little shop that smelled like a mixture of bacon grease, mothballs, and adventure. It had a squeaky front door that slammed with the authority of a gavel, and every time it closed, you knew justice got served—someone either came in with good money or left with a brown paper sack full of jelly beans.

The candy counter was a glass case of pure joy, low enough that kids could rest their elbows on it and stare, mouths slightly open, like art critics considering a masterpiece. Behind that glass were rows of root beer barrels, licorice ropes, wax bottles filled with juice, and little dots of sugar glued to strips of paper, like someone thought a receipt ought to be delicious.

The store owner, Mrs. DeVol, had the patience of a saint and the eyebrows of a wizard. He stood behind the counter with her hands folded, watching me calculate what combination of sweetness would yield the best return on investment.

“Alright, what’ll it be today?” she’d ask as if I were placing a Wall Street trade instead of debating between sour balls and a strip of Zotz.

“I’ll take three of those, four of these, and uh…how many Swedish Fish can I get for seven cents?”

Mrs. DeVol didn’t need a calculator. That woman could do candy math in her head like a Vegas card shark. And she always gave a little nod of approval when I spent the whole quarter as if I’d graduated with honors in Sugar Economics.

There was no bag too small or pocket too shallow for that haul. You walked out of that store wealthy—a capitalist prince among the barefoot summer kids.

You might even share a lemonhead, or two, to prove you were benevolent in your newfound affluence. The walk home was always slow, partly because you didn’t want it to end and partly because you were unwrapping candies with the efficiency of a raccoon at a campsite.

Sticky fingers, sticky face, sticky heart.

These days, a quarter won’t buy you a second glance, let alone 25 pieces of joy. You feed it to a parking meter or a vending machine, and it vanishes without so much as a thank you.

A quarter may not buy much anymore, but it still feels like treasure, and that’s because once upon a time, it was.

I mowed my lawn at 3:30.

No, not 3:30 in the afternoon—though I admit that would make more sense and raise fewer eyebrows from passing joggers and local law enforcement. I mean 3:30 in the morning, under the bleary light of the porch bulb and a moon so faint it looked like it had given up halfway through the night shift.

Why, you ask? Because my neighbor, bless his patriotic little heart, decided that the Fourth of July fireworks should not end on the Fourth, nor the Fifth, but rather should echo well into the Sixth, at precisely 1:00 a.m., when every sleeping soul was beginning to doze into a respectable REM cycle.

It wasn’t your standard-issue backyard light show either. These were the kind of fireworks that make your windows tremble and your dogs seriously reconsider their loyalty.

You know the ones—those booming, searing artillery shells that sound like someone dropped a flaming piano into a dumpster full of sheet metal. Every pop and sizzle seemed to rattle a memory loose from my childhood, including the one where I accidentally lit my uncle’s pant leg on fire with a sparkler.

I lay in bed listening to the last few bottle rockets whistle their way to wherever bad decisions go to die, and I thought, Fine. If you get to celebrate your freedom, I’ll celebrate mine.

So I celebrated by firing up the lawnmower.

Now, if you’ve never mowed your lawn at 3:30 a.m., I can’t honestly recommend it. The dew makes the grass stick to everything—shoes, socks, the mower blade, the vague sense of dignity you once had. And it turns out, every moth in the county thinks your porch light is the hottest nightclub in town.

But something unexpected happened out there in the dark. Somewhere between the back fence and the flower beds, I started to feel better. It was quiet, finally, just the rhythmic whirr of the mower and the soft chirp of crickets wondering what kind of lunatic trims the grass before sunrise.

I even saw a possum lumber by, giving me a look that said, You okay, man? And maybe I wasn’t entirely.

Perhaps I was still a little tired, a little grumpy, and a little petty. But now my lawn is trimmed, my legs are mosquito-bitten, and my temper, a few degrees cooler than it had been when I first stomped out of bed and into my work boots.

Around 3:52, as I rolled the mower back into the garage, I saw the light in my neighbor’s window flip on. I waved, real friendly-like. I’m sure it looked more sinister than sweet at that hour, especially with my bedhead sticking up like I got struck by lightning.

But that was my version of fireworks. And a celebration of lawn justice.

He gets his fun, I get mine. And perhaps next year, he’ll think twice before launching a grand finale at 1:00 a.m., or maybe, I’ll plant a row of hedges and invest in some industrial-grade earplugs.

Either way, I think I won this round.

When I was a boy growing up in Klamath, I tried to give directions to a local elder and ended up getting corrected in a language that predates Columbus, Plymouth Rock, and every one of my schoolbooks. That was the day I learned to pronounce Tlamati instead of Klamath, and I realized the river had a name long before we began building bridges across it.

We didn’t learn Yurok in school, mind you. Back then, the curriculum was heavy on the American Revolution, the Civil War, and the California Gold Rush and light on anything that happened this side of the Mississippi before 1870.

But on the playground, in fishing boats, and around backyard fire pits, those old words still floated up like mist off the river. My first Yurok word was Ch’eeshah–dog.

I learned it from an actual dog, or rather, from my friend Sandy, who hollered it every time his pup went tearing off after a squirrel.

“Ch’eeshah!” Sandy would shout.

And that dog would freeze mid-sprint, ears cocked like satellite dishes, and come bounding back. I thought it was magic. Later, I learned it was discipline, tradition, and the kind of bond built over generations—something we never quite grasped, no matter how many hot dogs I sacrificed.

Then came Sa’ahal, which I took to mean “village,” but quickly learned meant something much richer. It was the name for a place along the river, not just any village, but one that belonged to the river.

The way they say it, Sa’ahal sounds like a breeze pushing through the trees. You don’t just live in Sa’ahal. You belong to it.

That made me rethink every “Welcome” sign I’d ever gone past.

And then there’s Re-kwoi, which I mispronounced for years as “Wreck-wah.” But no, it’s Re-kwoi, where the river finally meets the Pacific Ocean.

It’s a place where salmon turn from silver to red and begin their final swim. I remember standing on the bluff as a boy, wind whipping around my ears, feeling like I could see Japan if I squinted hard enough–and thinking, this is the edge of something holy.

Somewhere between Ch’eeshah and Re-kwoi, I started hearing the river speak. Not in words, exactly, but in a rhythm and pulse that begin to line up with the beat of my heart.

That’s a poetic way of saying I spent a lot of time skipping rocks and failing to catch steelhead, but I like to think the river taught me something anyway. Nowadays, I can still pronounce those few Yurok words, and I try to pass them along when the chance arises.

It’s a small thing, I know—four words, some memories, a little reverence. But in a world where everything gets renamed, paved over, or turned into a campground, hanging onto those old words feels like tying a string between the past and present.

Not to hold on too tight—just enough so we don’t forget who whispered to the river first. And if that ain’t worth remembering, well, I reckon nothing is.

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 senior years–though I prefer “vintage model” to “elderly”–and my wardrobe aspirations have come full circle. I’m not trying to impress anyone anymore, not unless they’re selling tacos or hardware.

No, these days, I catch myself eyeing the younger generation and thinking, Now that looks comfortable. Then I try it–and that’s where the comedy begins.

Last week I bought a hoodie. Not the flannel-lined kind with zippers and dignity, but an honest-to-goodness baggy hoodie, just like the kids wear.

It had a mysterious logo on it that I think might be a band, a skateboard brand, or a Norwegian death cult, but I’m not sure. I also picked up a pair of those stretchy pants with drawstrings.

But the biggest hurdle came when I tried to sag my jeans a little, just like the neighbor boy does. Now, I wasn’t looking at completely embracing the look–just a modest dip, you know, as if my belt got distracted for a second.

So there I was, in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store, trying to feel young and free, when I reached up for a bag of tater tots and felt a breeze that wasn’t on the weather report. My jeans had migrated south like wintering geese, and I was flashing a bit of the ol’ adult-appropriate plastic-armored skivvies to a startled teenager who dropped his Monster Energy drink like I’d shown him the ghost of Christmas future.

That’s when I realized something important. Young folks dress like that because they can. Their bones don’t creak when they stoop, their undergarments don’t come with a waistband the size of Alaska, and they don’t need a mirror to remind them where everything used to be.

Me? I like feeling young, but I also like being able to stand up without holding onto my pants like the mast of a ship in a hurricane. I’ve come to terms with my jeans staying around my waist, my shirt covering my pants buttons, and that my shoes don’t betray me on a gravel driveway.

So, now I dress like an older man, trying not to look like a younger man trying to look older. It’s a subtle art, like growing tomatoes or avoiding family reunions.

But I’ll tell you this–the hoodie stays. It’s warm, it’s roomy, and if I spill something on it, nobody notices.

So, maybe I am finally dressing my age, but I’m just not sure which direction that is.

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 like it’s up to something.

I remember standing at our back window, watching it roll in like some ghostly tide. It moved around as if it were scouting the area.

And if you stared long enough, which I always did because I hadn’t learned better yet, the fog would start to show you shapes.

Faces. People, maybe, or the outlines of something that used to be people. I once swore I saw a man in a bowler hat walking through it, limping a little, head bowed as if he’d lost his glasses and was trying to remember where he left them back in 1912.

Of course, I told my younger brother about this, and he told me two things. One, I watched too much TV, and two, fog was just water vapor.

It didn’t help when, in 1984, I watched The Fog, a 1980 horror movie featuring ghost pirates and revenge, all the things that don’t help me sleep well at night. That movie hit all the notes I had been humming to myself since age six.

Do people walk out of the fog? Yep.

Fog with a purpose? Absolutely.

Creeping mist that knows where you live and doesn’t need a key to get in? Check, check, and check.

That night, I slept with a night light on, the covers pulled up to my nose, which I realize now is a poor defense against supernatural maritime revenge. But it made me feel better.

These days, I live in the high desert, where fog is rare and generally out of place. It doesn’t sneak up on you anymore—it has to drive in from out of town and hope you’re still home.

Out here, the mornings are mostly clear and sharp-edged. You can see for miles, and the horizon doesn’t hide things; it dares them to show up.

Still, now and then, just after a monsoon storm or during a freak chill in spring, I’ll catch a patch of it—low and sneaky—slipping through the sagebrush or curling at the edges of the fields like it’s trying to remember what it came here for. And wouldn’t you know, sometimes I think I see those shapes–again.

The man in the bowler hat. A woman in a long dress holding something—maybe a lantern, perhaps a rolling pin, it’s hard to say.

And I find myself backing up from the window just a little, not because I believe in ghost pirates, but because there’s a small, persistent part of me that does.

So, no offense to my brother and his science book explanations. I’m sure fog is just water vapor. But I also think it has good hearing, a lengthy memory, and a taste for the theatrical.

And if it wants to keep a few secrets? That’s its business and ain’t mine.

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 never had what you’d call a dependable relationship with modern technology. I’ve threatened my printer with physical harm, and once accused my toaster of working for the enemy. So when I found my truck parked sideways in front of the cafe last Thursday morning, the engine still warm, I naturally assumed the worst.

I’d been inside sipping a cup of black coffee that could melt a spoon, talking to Earl about how calves these days are born lazier than ever, when someone hollered, “Whose truck is that, sittin’ out like a drunk mule?”

I wandered out, curious. Sure enough, there was my old pickup, blocking two spots and part of the sidewalk, looking like it had just stumbled out of a bar fight. Keys still in the ignition, radio playing some honky-tonk tune I couldn’t remember turning on.

“Well, that’s mine,” I said, scratching my head and trying to piece together if I’d parked it like that or if someone was playing a prank.

I looked around. I saw no teenagers giggling behind bushes, no cameras, no signs of a mutiny.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—maybe I’d forgotten. But I hadn’t even driven there that morning. I’d walked. I remember it clearly as yesterday because I stepped in something questionable on the sidewalk just outside the middle school, cursed like a sailor, and hobbled the rest of the way like I had a nail in my boot.

So you tell me—how does a man walk to a cafe, enjoy half a conversation and a cup of tar-like coffee, only to find his truck done followed him there and parked itself like a blind shoat?

I checked for obvious signs–muddy footprints that weren’t mine, a misplaced hat, maybe a half-eaten sandwich in the passenger seat. Nothing. Clean as a whistle, which only made it weirder.

Earl wandered over, looked at the truck, looked at me, and said, “Tom, either someone’s messing with you, or your truck’s got a crush and decided to follow you just to prove a point.”

“Or I’m losing it,” I offered.

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Well, yeah, but we already knew that.”

I drove the truck home—carefully, I might add—and parked it with more dignity. The next morning, I chained the keys to a rusty wrench and left them on the workbench. I walked to the shopping center again, but there was no repeat performance.

Still, every so often, I catch the truck sitting there in the driveway, headlights angled just a little too smug, and I wonder. I may be crazy, but I know I didn’t drive myself.

And if I ever catch that truck joyriding again, I’m installing a breathalyzer and requiring it to pass a written test. After that, I’m checking myself into the state mental health facility for a vacation.

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 in cash and counted their change.

Buck had a voice that could rattle the nails off a two-by-four and a disposition like an unhousebroken porcupine. Every time I’d go in for a box of screws or some light bulbs, I’d brace myself like I was stepping into a wind tunnel of sarcasm and unsolicited opinion.

“Didn’t peg you for the DIY type,” he barked as I placed a toilet flapper on the counter.

“Just trying to keep the ol’ throne from running away on me,” I said.

He grunted and rang it up, muttering something about armchair plumbers and the decline of Western civilization.

Now, folks said Buck had seen some things—Vietnam, a divorce or three, a stint living in his cousin’s chicken coop after one of those divorces went sideways—and I always figured life had just handed him a series of lemons and instead of making lemonade, he threw’em at passersby.

One Saturday morning, I was in line behind a young man with one of those neck tattoos that look like a barbed-wire fence had gotten tangled in cursive writing. The kid was trying to buy a replacement chainsaw blade, looking sheepish and thumbing through a crumpled handful of ones and quarters.

Buck looked him up and down like he was deciding whether or not to swat a fly.

“This the right blade?” the kid asked, holding it up.

“Nope,” Buck said without even glancing. “You’re off by a size. And probably a few IQ points.”

Now, I braced myself for trouble—figured the kid would swing or at least snap back. But instead, he just grinned and said, “Thanks, man,” then swapped it for the right one and paid up–quarters and all.

After the kid left, I said to Buck, “You ever think about being polite?”

He leaned in close like he was sharing a secret. “Politeness,” he said, “is a luxury for people who don’t need to be taken seriously.”

I looked him square in the eye. “No, Buck. Rudeness is just the weak man’s imagination of strength.”

That got him quiet. It was the first time I’d seen his jaw do anything but clench.

My words had no effect, and the following week, he still told a woman she didn’t look “mechanically inclined” when she asked where the socket wrenches were. But I’d like to think something might’ve landed in that crusty old brain of his.

Maybe not an entire lesson, but a seed. A seed of decency, just waiting for rain.

The truth is, real strength doesn’t need to shout. It doesn’t humiliate, mock, or bark orders. It listens. It helps. Sometimes, it even smiles.

Which reminds me—I need to fix our leaky toilet. Oh, and I stopped going to Buck’s store, and oddly enough, I sleep better knowing there’s one less bark in my day.

And as far as I’m concerned, that’s strength–quiet, steady, and not afraid to say “please.”

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 the grass, sunburned noses, and the sound of unwrapping popsicles with your teeth.

When I was a kid, the 4th of July wasn’t just about fireworks. Sure, we had the parades and the sparklers, but our little corner of the country had a tradition so wholesome and absurd that I still can’t believe it was real–Cow Chip Bingo.

Now, I can’t tell you what outfit held it. It could’ve been the Rotary Club, the Grange, the Lions, the Elks, or maybe just a few bored dads with too much free time and a fence panel. What I can tell you is that it was genius.

Here’s how it worked–someone would line off a grid in a field—maybe 20 by 20, give or take—and each square had a number. Folks would buy a “deed” to a square for five dollars, which, to my childhood understanding, was about the cost of the world. Once all the squares got sold, they’d turn loose a single, well-fed cow into the grid. Then everyone would wait.

That was the whole thing. You stood around, paper plate of potato salad in one hand, hoping a cow would answer nature’s call squarely on your property.

And let me tell you, there was cheering, with hollering you’d hear at a Little League championship, but instead of runs or home plates, the crowd was rooting for digestion. And when the cow finally picked her plot? Oh, the excitement!

Grown men shouted. Grandmas clapped. Kids pointed and giggled, and one lucky person walked away a hundred dollars richer and slightly queasy.

Now, I never won. Not once.

But I came close—square adjacent. The kind of near miss that had me swearing I could feel the vibration through the grass.

Still, it didn’t matter. The real prize was being there, surrounded by neighbors who brought folding chairs and Jell-O salads, laughing under a sky that seemed to stretch forever.

These days, you can’t get away with that kind of thing without a permit, a handwashing station, and at least three lawyers standing by. But back then? It was pure Americana, smelly and sweet and utterly unforgettable.

Funny what we carry with us. Fireworks fade. Sparklers burn out. But the memory of that cow—placid, unconcerned with the crowd’s anticipation—lingers like the smell of barbecue smoke in a cotton shirt.

So yeah, I’m feeling homesick for childhood. Not the place, but the feeling. The freedom of summer, the gentle absurdity of community, and the hope that, maybe just this once, a cow might make you a winner.

And if not—well, there was always next year.

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 a whale. She said it was a miracle, and that was that.

Well, I raised my hand and asked, “Did the whale chew him, or just kind of swallow him like an asprin?”

Let’s say Catholics aren’t into speculative marine biology, and thinking out loud became strongly discouraged. That day, I learned two things–whales aren’t fans of digestion details, and grown folks don’t much care for kids who ask too many questions. Especially questions that sound a little too much like common sense.

Fast forward two decades, and not much has changed in that period.

I was working a radio gig—the kind with just enough responsibility to keep you awake but not enough to let you do anything grand. One afternoon, during a meeting, we discussed a new jingle package for the upcoming Nielsen ratings in our tiny market.

I asked, “Has anyone ever thought about just skipping the book?”

You’d have thought I’d suggested we have a sword fight with sharpened #2 pencils.

Here’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young and eager to please– the moment you start thinking for yourself, you become a threat to people who stopped doing it long ago. It’s like showing up at a zombie convention and refusing the brain buffet.

Folks don’t know what to do with you, so they either ignore you or try to get you back in line by quoting policy, scripture, or their Auntie. Now, I’m not saying thinking for yourself makes you smarter. It doesn’t always.

I once attempted to fix a water heater because a YouTube video said I could. That fiasco ended with a minor flood, a burnt forearm, and a plumber who laughed so hard he gave himself hiccups.

But it does make you more awake. It means you notice things—like when someone’s talking in circles, or when a plan makes no sense, or when the Emperor’s got his keister flapping in the wind.

Thinking for yourself is a dangerous business. It gets you booted from Sunday school, banned from bureaucratic meetings, and occasionally scalded.

But it also means you’re living your life and not just renting space in someone else’s brain. So, as for me, I’ll keep asking dumb questions and raising an eyebrow when things smell fishy.

And if that lands me in hot water again, well, at least I’ll be thinking while I’m in it.