It was the day of a dump run. Yes, we call it a transfer station now. I grew up in the era of the dump, the EOTD. It wasn’t a pretty time, but the name sticks. I’ll call it a dump until death; it connects me to the past, as did the stepladder. It’s a…
The last time that I ate lunch on the porch of the lilliputian cabin was in August of 1969. Back then, the shiplap siding was bright white with red trim slathered on the boards of the eaves and all vertical edges. My grandfather had a retired fireman’s affinity for the color red. The fog that…
The phone buzzed across the dusty surface of my nightstand last night. I’d generally avoid picking up a text at the witching hour, but my current agenda includes answering specific inquiries that I have made through the magic of electronic communication. I’ve been perusing Facebook Marketplace. I was trying to buy another old aluminum boat….
Peering over the chipped and faded balusters surrounding the loose floorboards of a Victorian sitting porch stands a forty-six-inch-high plastic Santa Claus. This particular Saint Nick was picked up on a whim during a late fall shopping trip to Sears and Roebuck in 1968. His bright blue eyes have seen plenty of cheer from his…