Jump. Run. Walk. Ball. Throw. Catch. Milk. Baby… Mother.
The front porch of our little, off-white stucco house in Medora, N.D., was a magical place to be on hot, muggy summer evenings. / I was about 5 years old, and it was father-son time. I’d lean back, feel the strength in his chest and the arm around me, enjoy the cracking of peanuts in one of his big hands or the aroma of tobacco as he puffed at his pipe from time to time.
From Pink Floyd to the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, there have been a lot of colors along the way.
I submitted “Extra! Extra!” (see earlier post on this blog) to Country Extra magazine, which was soliciting personal, small-town stories featuring acts of kindness. The magazine’s editors shortened the piece considerably and printed it […]
To Calgary and back, and my signature Olympic moment came in Circle, Mont.