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I found this little guy sitting on a table at the church rummage sale today. His ticking is loud and he sits on my desk and keeps me company.

Our neighbors have an awesome deck, a welcoming firepit, and a killer fashion sense.

I just love these little guys. Several times a day I open the tray lid, lower my face down to them and breathe in their warm, brown breath. Soon they will each have proper names, and we will take turns reading poetry and singing to them.

The sound of Noah learning how to hammer nails on our front steps rang through the neighborhood, acting as a beacon to all knights neighbors within hearing range.

“Before beginning a hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it.” – Winnie the Pooh Things here are still brown and gray, so we hearty Northern types have to hunt for Colour in March. We found a marble, played Pooh Sticks, collected rocks, and endured A Perilous Crossing. I think five is my favorite age.

On our way to the shops in the upper village, we always stop by the memorial park to greet the lion in the fountain. He doesn’t start spitting water until April.

A little one acting not quite right. A pizza lunch at the amphitheater, sheltered from the drizzle. A visit to the library. A confession: a sore throat since morning. A quick ride home. A fever. A bed.

One day, when I was about five years old, my mama found this piano on the side of the road. She recruited friends to haul it back to our falling-down farmhouse, and then just like that, we had a piano. She played it, I played it a little, and when he visited, my crazy Swedish grandfather played it a lot. We were very poor when she found that piano. My father still slept on our downstairs couch because he had nowhere to go after the divorce. We scrounged clothing for free from the Rescue Mission. I had sores in the corners of my mouth from malnutrition. You know, that kind of poor. ...

He will be eighty years old this October but he still mans the grill on Sundays.