I live in a part of the country where we talk a lot about weather a lot because it's both highly entertaining and can kill us. Like many places in the middle of the continent, we're famous for four seasons in one day. So often, I find myself wishing for the humidity to break, the rain to fall, the rain to stop, the cold snap to snap away, or whatever else that would bring me creature comforts. But we often just get a handful of days each year of pure pleasantness. Mostly it's

"I wish someone would ask me about my regrets," one of my friends recently said to me. "What are your regrets?" I asked. She told me, but those are hers to tell, not mine. No worries though because I have plenty of regrets to talk about, most in the flavor of "Love is never having to say you're sorry" = bullshit. Or another friend told me, William Burroughs used to joke/not joke that every day he lived was another day full of regrets. Here's some of mine: I don't regret adopt

"I'm getting fixed!" says the mower. If it's on wheels at our place, it's in trouble. At least that's the consensus of a SUV, a compact car, an early 1960s tractor, an old Ford pick-up truck, and a self-propelled mower. What does it mean, I ask myself and Ken. "I think it means we need to put a lot more effort into moving ahead," Ken said. "I think it means we might need to slow down and stay put a little," I said. It also means there are hungry critters with strange appetite

Wonderful night photo by Stephen Locke, also the cover of my first novel (used with permission) When I was a little kid, the dark terrified me. At least, that's what I remember, but I think now I was just a night owl afraid of being alone, so I would pull myself up to standing in my crib and cry until someone came in. I didn't yet know how to befriend the dark I would come to love so much later on. When the dark encompassed the sky, I came alive, my little but fierce mind spi