I grew up with a mom who was a total babe. If she heard me say, this she would laugh and threaten to smack me a good one.
We were deep in the mountains last Saturday night, my oldest friend and me, sitting by a large crackling fire under a vault of bright stars, mere yards from one of the finest - and last - true wild trout streams in the East.
As we were cruising down a lovely backroad to the Masters golf tournament early last week, listening to a beautiful soundtrack on the sound system of our new car, my bride, Wendy, asked me what I was thinking about - I seemed so quiet, so deep in thought.
Reprinted from PineStraw magazine.
My favorite TV commercials are made by Subaru, spots which illustrate the longevity and utility of their vehicles tied to the passage of life, clearly striking a chord with devoted Subaru owners who harbor passionate feelings about their automobiles.
Don't know about you, but I'm weary of March Madness, the NCAA's orgiastic college basketball tournament that makes ordinary companies into betting parlors and occupies half the cable network channels on any given night between the Ides of March and April Fool's Day.
An old chum from Maine and I were catching up long distance the other day when she asked me what I feared most in life now that I'd clocked 60 years on the odometer. She crossed this threshold five years ago and admitted being pleasantly surprised by what she didn't worry about anymore - in her case, facial wrinkles, sudden death and the fact that she still couldn't make a decent meringue.
Forget the sequester, gun control, even Dennis Rodman's budding bromance with Korea's nuke-happy troll doll Kim Jung Un.
During a recent weekend phone conversation with my daughter, she casually mentioned that she was thinking of checking out Riverside Presbyterian Church some Sunday morning this spring.
I dropped in on Cousin Junior the other day to get his perspective on the news. February has been a rich month for news junkies like me. But listening to human hot-air balloons like Al Sharpton and Bill O'Reilly makes me wish television had never been invented.
On a cold Friday in late January of 1975, I skipped a senior history seminar class at college and drove three hours home to surprise my father for his 60th birthday, bringing him a bottle of his favorite Napoleon brandy.
Frenchman Nicholas Garreau thinks he has me outfoxed in the romance department.
Cassie and Kira, the super-smart, culturally savvy young women who sound as if they're named for classical goddesses and make our office run so brilliantly, sometimes laugh out loud when I throw up my hands over a major vexing computer challenge - like how to turn my laptop back on after a sudden power loss - and declare, "That's it! Get me out of here! By Jove, I belong back in the 19th century!"
Today, as I write this, my mom would have been 93 years old, and I walked a mile or so down the beach to where, half a century or so ago, just this side of the original Johnny Mercer pier, she taught me to swim in a small lagoon on the sound side of the island.
A good friend phoned from his annual spiritual retreat to Florida the other day just to say hello and hear a friendly voice. For a solid month he does nothing more than fast, read books and walk the beach, losing weight and gaining perspective - virtually all in silence.