- December 8, 2016
The old man must be dead (whoever he was) to let everything go to seed like that. Parking my ‘94 sedan I put my day’s prescribed itinerary and drive aside for a moment to work my way through the wilted wire fence toward an abandoned old barn. Tall grass sizzled at my waist as I approached and the tall trees confabbed – nudging each other with swaying limbs and leafy whispers. Grasshoppers zigged and zagged, until I at last I had become a farm boy again, not too smart for my britches, but a welcome stranger wading in from the roadside – with a hand to touch and an ear to lend to these leaning old walls should they have anything to share.
- November 29, 2016
If it has to do with you or me – or anything else outside the narrow sphere of his interests (that makes a Troder’s home) – don’t expect to receive a hoot. You’ll soon find there are exactly none given. The sign hung on the front door said as much in a few words.
Below the blue misty mountains, where nothing changes over thousands of years, among all things, a Troder shows the least promise of mellowing with time. Even a rock will exude more relaxation, weathering both sun and storm, in the process giving up a bit of itself in natural harmony with the surroundings. It does not think about it. It is only right.
But a Troder, given the same opportunity, only withdraws.Read More
- November 28, 2016
It is one of those glass phone booths straight out of the sixties or seventies, or whenever. The door is folded to one side. Nearby is a red fire hydrant, a bum on the curb nursing his paper bag, people coming and going. Nobody seems to notice or care what this phone booth is still doing here. Somebody bumps by. They smile a passport expression at you. Then the phone rings.