It occurred to me this week while watching extremely fast Olympic Jamaicans run, incredibly fast Olympic Americans swim and exorbitantly…
In my effort to keep my forefingers on the pulse of our back yards, I took a road trip yesterday to process that information to which
With this column I am pleased to announce the addition of several new co-columnists who, without their knowledge or permission, have successfully contributed to the comedic content of today’s offering.
One of the many joys of living on Whidbey is being able to work on Whidbey.
My earliest recollection of being on stage is fourth grade, singing with my fellow classmates at Wickliffe Elementary in Columbus, Ohio.
As of the last three weeks, there is a young buck living in my yard.
As the summer of 1969’s Kris Kristofferson-Fred Foster song “Me and Bobby McGee” sings, “Freedom’s just another word…” And what a word it is when put in action.
Now that the weather is nicer, many of us are trying to get more things done.
While backing my sometime-later-to-be-paid-for truck up a hill today, I realized once again how much I enjoy backing up.
Not just remembering, mind you, or mind me, but the sheer joy of doing a good job backing up your vehicle, be it your car, your truck, your rig, your boat, your trailer or your riding mower.
As I age, somewhere to the left of graciously, I find it amusing that I have, in recent years, begun to sacrifice style for function.
Maybe after developing one’s own style, it is less necessary to borrow the alleged style of others.
Last Wednesday, after successfully solo laundromating in that city north of us that none of us want to be seen in, I journeyed by Big 5 to say “hello” to Diane. A few months back, when I last made an emergency run to Wally World for mindless gifts, I purchased my first ever pair of Dr. Scholl’s shoes from her.
Either my feet are swelling as I age or my fourth-grade socks no longer fit.
Jim Freeman says thanks again for showing up.
Despite my good intentions to share some significant historical observations from last week’s tour of the Studebaker Museum in South Bend, Ind., I must hold the press on this to discuss the recent reminders experienced first hand of sharing a bathroom with three women.
Greetings from our Hoosier home front.
