By Michael Shook I turned 69 this summer, from which it follows, of course, that next year I’ll hit 70. That’s assuming I live that long. I expect to, but one never knows. At this age, I’ve lost a number of friends that I just assumed I’d be growing old with, some of them very…
By Michael Shook By the time this is in print, the leaves of the bigleaf maples will have taken on their darker summer look, and depending on how dry things are, they might already have the first dulling of dust covering them. But for now, in June, their leaves, and those of every other plant…
By Michael Shook A few weeks ago, my wife returned from taking the Scotties on their morning walk, and informed me she had seen a squashed frog on the road. The younger Scottie, Walter, had lunged for it, no doubt to eat. She at first thought it to be a rat, albeit a misshapen one…
The most obvious method whereby I arrived here is “by boat,” which is, I admit, a dreadful and dreadfully weak attempt at humor, for which I blame a certain recalcitrant eight year-old in my head, who refuses to grow up, and who will not go away, either. I could also blame my father, who, like…