The puppies had me flying out of the Airbnb the next morning accompanied by Stella, barking her head off. Andrew followed with his coffee. “Did you hear the owl this morning?” John asked. Andrew raised his eyebrows. The genuine-ness of the owls not to mention the crickets was still in question. We learned a little  Read the Rest…

Andrew and I (and Stella, the dog) traveled to Walla Walla last week. You might be forgiven for thinking we were going for the wineries but we were not. Neither of us are drinkers. We were there for the Walla Walla sweets and Ancestor Worship, as Andrew says. My father was born and grew up  Read the Rest…

There are two Marks and Spencers in all of Cornwall; we stopped at the one in St Ives to get whatever we might need for the last evening of the holiday. We had to choose food for two meals, use the toilets and have tea in the café– one always has tea in the café  Read the Rest…

A few months’ ago I confided in my friend Tim my desire to have a dog. “I’m going to give you some advice,” he said. “Don’t. You’re a cat person.” I positively bristled at this: You’re not the boss of me. Don’t tell me I can’t do something. Adults don’t tell other adults they can’t  Read the Rest…

I’m up on Whidbey Island writing a novel.  I have no idea how to write a novel.  This novel actually began in 1997 with a very long short story that I thought would develop itself.  I thought a novel would spool from my imagination without my having to think about anything like structure or an  Read the Rest…

The day after the election the pall that settled over Seattle was dreadful.  It was as though someone had died in every home–except for the guy around the corner who has had a big sign in his front window for eight years: No Obamanation.  For a month he had a Trump/Pence sign plastered over that.   Read the Rest…

(This is 7th in a series that begins with A Night in Steerage) Burnham-on-Sea is a small resort town on Bridgewater Bay, which is itself a dip in the Bristol Channel.  I was here in 2009 when Mervyn was alive and Pam was herself.  I stayed with them in their semi-detached house on Love Lane.   Read the Rest…

My Little Dorrit story begins months before I ever launched myself on my current Summer of Dickens project. I was browsing in the library to see if there was a book on tape not by an author whose paperbacks could insulate a McMansion. I saw Little Dorrit. “Oh. Little Dorrit. I’ll try that.” There were  Read the Rest…

I knew I’d be writing this post at some point but I thought I had another few weeks.  Last night a friend named Karen died.  For the ten years I was music director at the church, Karen had been popping her gum in the pew and feeding dog biscuits to Marvin, her Miniature Pinscher. As  Read the Rest…

On my current austerity budget, I don’t have cable television.  In addition I don’t have a digital receiver since I did not have the foresight to avail myself of one back when the city was handing them out.  Because of the aforementioned budget, I won’t buy one.  Gwen my neighbor who knows something about just  Read the Rest…