Rain wakes me at 7 a.m., the day before Christmas. I decide to read Joan Didion with coffee. She died yesterday. Later I will read Slouching Toward Bethlehem . This morning I choose her essay on Ernest Hemingway, Last Words. There will be fried potatoes and green chile for breakfast. Cowboy ate his kibble and …
deSunlight pierces the window precisely at 6:30 a.m. I feign sleep but sense brown eyes penetrating my deceit. I know the flutter of an eyelid, a shift of sore hips, one lateral move of a blanketed foot will mean my 60-pound blue heeler leaping onto the bed and draping his torso across mine. For Cowboy, …
I cover a lot of ground before I get out of bed in the morning. The review usually includes life history, current hip, knee and lung functions and the weather. This morning’s mental surge included my obituary, not because I have twice had cancer but because I have so far twice survived cancer. I’ll throw …
I’ve become pretty clever about stocking up on staples during the coronavirus crisis, finding new space to stack boxes and cans. Now I just need to figure out where I stashed that extra bag of Cowboy’s kibble. I’m sure it’s someplace cute. My last “aha” was the guest bathroom, but apparently I have been cuter …
dream ranch 