The Old Blog in the Desert

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.

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 Tuesday morning, I’d already made myself a championship belt using cardboard and aluminum foil.

The only thing missing was an opponent.

That’s where my brother Adam came in. He was three years younger than I, and I convinced him that we should have a title match in the backyard, and he agreed.

Now, I’d like to tell you I trained for that bout, that I ran laps around the yard and shadowboxed in the mirror like Ali. But I mostly just strutted around the house, tripping over my feet.

The day of the big fight arrived. Grandma handed us each a pair of her old crocheted mittens to wear as gloves. That should’ve been my first warning sign. Adam pulled on his with a look of vengeance in his eye while I was still admiring how mine matched my socks.

We squared off. Adam hunched like a bulldog, and I bounced on my toes like a lopsided trampoline. I took one step forward, threw a jab that missed by a foot, and Adam clobbered me right in the stomach.

Now, it wasn’t hard–not even enough to bruise—but it did knock all the wind out of me. I stumbled backward, fell over a tricycle, and lay there blinking up at the clouds, wondering if this was what the end looked like.

I could hear Adam hollering, “I won! I’m the champ!”

And I let him be. I didn’t even get up.

That was the first and last time I ever attempted anything resembling combat sports. My faux-boxing career lasted only 30 seconds, and I hung up my mittens after that.

Later that day, after the swelling in my pride went down, Grandpa sat me on the porch. He didn’t say anything right away—just sat beside me for a while, slow and easy.

Then he said, “Tommy, if you think you’re beaten—you are. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with gloves or jabs or which boy got knocked over a tricycle. Most times, the loss happens long before the first swing.”

That stuck with me.

So, I never boxed again, but I did try out for the track team, ran for class president, and lost, then took up writing stories no one asked for. The thing is, I didn’t stop just because I got knocked back once or twice. I might’ve been beaten that day by my little brother, but I’ve made sure not to lie down so easily since.

Still, now and then, I’ll see a pair of mittens and feel a twinge in memory, and I can’t help but smile.

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 used to do, and I knew I’d lost. So now it hangs proudly near the coffee maker, and truth be told, it’s the most honest piece of literature in the whole house.

I’ve never been a “morning person.” At best, I’m a late-morning truce negotiator. At worst, I’m a growling heap wrapped in an old robe and clutching my coffee mug like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

When I worked a regular 9-to-5 job, I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to be presentable by 7 a.m. It wasn’t that I wanted to look good—I didn’t want to frighten small children or end up on someone’s security footage.

Back then, my morning routine was more battlefield prep than peaceful ritual. My alarm goes off. I slap it. The alarm goes off again. I curse the inventor of clocks.

Finally, I stumble out of bed and try to find the kitchen without tripping over the dogs, who insist on sleeping wherever my feet intend to go. Once there, I make a beeline for the coffee pot—assuming, of course, I remembered to set it the night before.

On one unfortunate occasion, I forgot. I stood there, yawning my head off, looking at that emptiness like it had personally betrayed me.

The machine stared back coldly, mocking me with its lack of gurgling. And wouldn’t you know it, that was also the morning the filter decided to clog.

So there I was, standing in my underwear at four a.m., trying to coax a sputtering faucet into filling a pot so I could brew life back into my bones. It’s in those moments that you understand how wars get started.

I’ve tried tea. Folks always suggest it. “Why not try green tea? It’s soothing.”

Sure, maybe for monks and forest creatures. For me, it’s just hot leafy water and false promises. Tea doesn’t whisper sweet nothings to me the way coffee does.

Coffee says, “Hey, you might be tired, grumpy, and aging like an avocado, but you’ve got this.”

Tea says, “You should be wearing yoga pants and journaling your feelings.”

Some folks go all out with their coffee—fancy machines, milk frothers, beans blessed by Peruvian llamas. I’m a simple man and like mine straight-up, hot, and black.

It’s not about taste; it’s about survival. The first cup gets me to coherent speech. A second cup makes me human. That third cup might even get me to go outside and interact with people. Maybe.

So now, each morning, I shuffle into the kitchen, give the sign a bleary glance, pour a cup, turn to the microwave oven, insert my cup, and press the button like I’m launching a mission to Mars. I yawn as I wait.

That first sip? It’s not just coffee—it’s hope. And if that ain’t poetry, I don’t know what is.

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 laundry basket.

Last week, it read, “Sarcasm: Just One of My Many Talents.” And the week before that, “I’m Not Arguing—I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right.” He’s become a walking bumper sticker, only you don’t need a car to get run over by his opinions.

Randy lives down the street and owns exactly two pairs of shorts and 143 T-shirts. I’ve never seen the man in anything with buttons. He swears he hasn’t owned an iron since the Reagan administration. He told me, “Wrinkles add character.” I didn’t ask if he meant shirts or his face.

One day, he showed up at my place wearing a red shirt that read, “I Tried to Be Normal Once. Worst Two Minutes of My Life.” I offered him coffee. He declined and pulled a Red Bull from his pocket like it was a magic trick. “Caffeine is caffeine,” he said, chugging it in two gulps. He crushed the can with one hand, tossed it in my recycle bin, and settled into a lawn chair like he was fixin’ to stay a while.

We sat under the carport, swapping lies about our younger days, and I finally asked, “You got a whole closet of those shirts or do they just multiply when you leave ‘em unattended?”

Randy smiled, pleased with himself. “Oh, I got a system,” he said. “Every time the world annoys me—which is often—I buy a shirt that says what I’m thinkin’ so I don’t have to say it out loud. Saves time. And friendships.”

“Your shirts are doin’ a lot of heavy liftin’ then,” I said, sipping my coffee.

I once asked him if he ever wore anything plain. He blinked like I’d asked if he believed in gravity. “Plain? Why? If I can make someone snort milk through their nose at the grocery store, I’ve done my civic duty.”

Randy considers himself a public service announcement. He’ll walk through town like a parade float, gettin’ honks and laughs. At church, the pastor once had to pause his sermon when he noticed Randy’s shirt said, “Technically, Moses Was the First Person With a Tablet Downloaded From the Cloud.”

He wore one to the DMV that said, “In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised.” That one earned him a side-eye from the woman behind the counter, but even she cracked a smile when he winked.

I suppose we all have our quirks. Mine’s refusing to use the self-checkout. Randy makes people laugh even when they don’t want to. And between the two of us, I think the world might survive a little longer.

Anyway, I saw him yesterday in line at the hardware store. His shirt said, “Some People Age Like Fine Wine. I Age Like Milk.” I nearly dropped my paint roller.

“Lookin’ fresh,” I told him.

He puffed out his chest. “Thanks. Got it on sale. I think the sentiment was free.”

I shook my head. I may not agree with everything Randy says, but I’ll give him this—he never needs to raise his voice. His shirts do the talking.