In a brief ceremony held under cold rain, the loyal hen Goldie, recently removed from the chest freezer where she lay wrapped in a feed bag since her death in winter, was buried per daughter’s request beneath a flowering plum tree overlooking the valley. Last of our first flock.
A father’s everlasting gift. Excerpted from Coop. Or Coop. I do these now and then. To be notified when a new one goes up, please subscribe here. The entire “ReWriting” series available here. Prefer your podcasts via iTunes? Go here.
Lotsa book tour miles in the next three months, so I recorded this about driverless cars, teaching our daughter to drive a stick shift, and why chicken tractors are more my speed. This piece is also in “Roughneck Grace.” I do these now and then. To be notified when a new one goes up, please subscribe…View post
Since I’ll be out with the band the next two nights, did a quick recording of “Guitar Girls,” an essay about singing with my daughters that began as a Tent Show Radio monologue then wound up in this book. The Olivia sticker is on one of my guitar cases. My daughter put it there years…View post
Writing, rainy. Outside the window, Mama cardinal with two babies. They’re big as her and pecking but still she feeds them. Adolescents.