That Saturday found our family pulling into the Russian River Vineyards—just one more minivan of a caravan full of friends exploring the Northern California coast. Nothing says “relaxation” like visiting a winery with little children, or at least that’s the story I told myself as I pulled my third little one out of his car seat. My wife had already spirited the other two out of the parking lot. I took up the rear and ensured that our youngest didn’t inflict too much harm upon himself or others. He had yet to adopt the Hippocratic oath, you know. (more…)
Our little house is a charmer. For instance, the distressed hardware on the doors dates back to 1947. Not because it is fashionable to place distressed knobs on doors, but rather because nobody has bothered to replace them. The same is true of our blue and white kitchen tile, and I certainly dig those antique touches. Though some might argue that the house would be that much more charming with the addition of a second bathroom. I don’t know that bathrooms will ever go out of style.
The edifice you see pictured here, however charming, is not my little house. Though the gathering of gables may have given that away already. (more…)
Me and my braddah were like two coconuts in a palm tree. Sure, we had hundreds of brothers and sisters running ’round da beaches here. But Frankie and I, we had something different.
But then Frankie left our island. Went to some other island across da pond. I never got it, but hey, that’s probably why he’s a millionaire and I’m sitting on this here rock.
On a black sand beach covered with rocks, he chose this one. He clutched the little stone with the same joy he might muster for a Christmas gift (or for the empty cardboard box the gift came in). If I’ve learned anything from him, it is that wonder can surface in plain sight.
After all, he found it. It was his. It was special.