From the porch
It's a cloudy, upper-sixties Sunday evening. I'm sitting on the porch in a rocking chair that's almost as old as I am, feet propped on an overturned five-gallon bucket. Traffic in front of the house is picking up as we inch toward Memorial Day, our beautiful lake taken over by vacationers who both keep our little economy going and frustrate the living heck out of us on the roads. Between vehicles passing, I'm listening to the birds. So many, all with different tweets, some close, some far away, all compelled to share their song. What I wouldn't give for wings. To be high above everything, eyes closed, soaring in the sunlight, not a care in the world. A woodpecker drums out a beat, then the poor confused rooster a few fields away sounds his call. Maybe his human works nights. There are two bald spots in the front yard. One is a pitcher's mound, the other home plate. Our wiffle ball games are rowdy, as rowdy as plastic sports can be. For a still-broken window ju...