“A writer is someone who can't tell the truth, but dresses it up so nobody notices.” -- Tom Darby
Some evenings, I sit on my porch and listen. My bench creaks under my weight, and the hum of the fridge drifts out from inside.
And somehow, if I pay attention, all those little sounds come together like the day itself is sighing and saying, “Well, thanks for sticking around.”
I notice the ordinary things: a ball bouncing against a fence, the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with a hint of wood smoke, the soft glow of fireflies blinking across the yard. It’s the small, quiet moments that keep me steady when the world feels heavy, reminding me that life doesn’t have to be big or perfect.
I’ve realized that life is a lot like hanging laundry on a line. You put something out there, give it a little sun and wind, and hope it dries before the neighbor’s cat gets curious.
You have to pay attention and let it do its thing. Sometimes noticing is all the faith you need.
And on some evenings, the world feels too noisy. Other evenings, I hum a little tune, half-memory, half-imagination, and I feel carried by the ordinary things I almost always overlook.
That’s what I hope you’ll find here: a chance to notice, to breathe, and to take a little bit of quiet hope with you. Because it’s there, but you have to sit long enough to hear it.
<strong>About Tom Darby</strong>
Born in France and raised in Klamath, Cal., Tom blogs from Spanish Springs, Nev., sharing stories from childhood, military service, and a career in radio and journalism.
The Old Blog in the Desert 