I’m not sure when I switched over to calling him Papa.
It was always Ken, my wife’s father. Before that, he was Ken, my girlfriend’s father.
When we got married, he had tears streaming down his heavily lined face. He was signing our marriage certificate, and he stopped, looked up and said, “I’m not losing a daughter, I’m gaining a son.”
And to this day, I have never felt anything less than a solid member of the Carpenter clan.
Continue reading Papa
I was killing time at my best friend’s condo in PDX tonight, waiting for the protests to die down when the news of Leonard Cohen’s death broke.
My friend didn’t know who he was, so I played “Hallelujah” on Spotify for him and his kids.
Of course they only know the Jeff Buckley version, or, more realistically, the John Cale version from “Shreck,” but my point was made.
The man whose lyrics I read more than I ever listened to is dead at 82.
And Trump was in the White House today.
Continue reading Trump is president and Leonard Cohen is Dead
The screams started as I sat down to write in the three-season room off the back of our new rental house.
It was lower in tone than a cicada, but it had that constant humming quality to it that made it unbearable, like a low-grade headache.
I scanned the yard to see if I could spot where the sound was coming from, but I didn’t notice anything.
It continued for several minutes and then fell silent.
There was noticeable relief when it ended. I felt physically better somehow.
I cracked my knuckles and went to work on a short story that I was struggling to end shortly.
Continue reading Death of a small woodland animal