May 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
As I gardened this weekend, musing about Memorial Day in light of the journey I have been on in the past year and a half, I remembered this. It is a story about my godson, three years ago, when he was eight. We had gone to visit the family and to attend the spring fair at the children’s school. I wrote this a few days after I came home.
May 18, 2012 § 1 Comment
“What’s the problem?” Coyote looked up from his novel. Tony Hillerman, I noticed.
I myself was reading about a murder in Savannah, Georgia, and I was keeping track.
“Well, it just seems like some people have a prejudice against them and I am pretty sure it’s not justified.” I was afraid I was picking a fight but I didn’t care. I wanted to get this straightened out.
“Listen to this, for instance,” I continued before Coyote could get a word in. “It’s a sentence in this book I’m reading. ‘This was the hole allegedly made by Danny Hansford during his rampage through the house a month before he was killed.'” « Read the rest of this entry »
May 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
The men sit, brooding, waiting, exhausted. If they are told to do something, they are ready to do it, their equipment close by. Their weapons and personal belongings – is there a distinction? – are bundled into packs. For the moment their helmets are cast aside. The man in the foreground wears what he called a “hard-core hat.” « Read the rest of this entry »