tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9859418324312141492024-08-30T04:52:23.797-07:00A collection of essays that combine to describe a lifeT.W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01169415464456793055noreply@blogger.comBlogger3614tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-985941832431214149.post-80261261569270652292020-06-08T09:48:00.001-07:002023-06-13T12:32:23.306-07:00

We’ve all had terrifying major surgery postponed at the very last minute. So few of us are willing to tell our stories, however, that the experience has remained under the social radar, kept in the closet with our bell bottoms and our demented yet lovable uncles. My story begins, as so many do, in the formative years from age 35 to 55. Spinal stenosis and herniated discs in my neck caused a slow

T.W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01169415464456793055noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-985941832431214149.post-20261447106909021682020-06-05T16:08:00.001-07:002021-05-12T17:08:57.521-07:00

My wife and I suffered our fifth wedding anniversary many years ago.It’s a wonder we and our marriage survived. The anniversary was not, of course, designed to be a disaster. It began as a slow descent into forgettable and gained momentum into unpleasant before careening downhill into catastrophe. We had spent the week before the anniversary in a lovely cottage on Captiva, an island off the

T.W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01169415464456793055noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-985941832431214149.post-88258390784468943662020-04-28T08:47:00.000-07:002020-09-10T14:07:57.366-07:00

Washington at Valley Forge, freezing cold but up spoke George, he said, “Bo doh de oh, bo doh de oh, doh.” As I changed my infant son’s diaper, I’d sing this song to him. It had many lyrics, most of which didn’t make any sense at all. But I’d sing it through and then, when we were both clean and fresh, I’d hold him in my arms and I’d say, “I love you; I’ll take care of you; I’ll always be there

T.W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01169415464456793055noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-985941832431214149.post-39297552594374884352020-04-15T12:29:00.000-07:002020-05-29T12:32:03.797-07:00

My father was an old world craftsman, not in the sense that he created exquisite furniture for people who had been born into “the purple of commerce or who had risen through the ranks of the aristocracy.”(see Wilde, Oscar) No, he was a craftsman in the sense that he tried to make whatever he needed out of whatever he had on hand.  I remember many happy childhood hours with my little

T.W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01169415464456793055noreply@blogger.com