“He seemed like a nice guy, you know, quiet, sort of kept to himself”.
“Mmm, well if you think of anything, here’s my card, give me a call.

Those who remain, we remember for the rest of our lives. Some for the large effect they had on the persons we became. Some others because of some small incident that stayed in our head thereafter, some act of courage, wisdom, or generosity.

A lot of us are uncomfortable meeting strangers, speaking in public, leery even of speaking openly with in-laws at a family holiday.

Five men stand talking near the center of a cavernous room. Around them are partially completed metal frames and dangling electrical wires.

Stories like Eleanor Rigby’s has been repeated over, and over, over the years. If such unfulfilled longing is so typical, why does it seem to us so sad?

Shadowy suspicions that tumble darkly, in complex rearrangements , for days on end, sometimes for years.

What might that be? We may imagine we know. We don’t.

Dismissed as sentimental pap, a pop song for angst-burdened teenagers, certainly nothing to be taken seriously - are you sure?

Since fall I have been living with two unintended guests.

My friend Page would recall some adventure of Bix Beiderbecke’s, which would then remind someone else of an interesting story about Django Reinhart, which would remind me that Django Reinhart had only two good fingers on his fretting hand.

Ting ,ding, ding, buzz . . . “Welcome! Thank you for calling Multi-Maga Services Amalgamated. This call may be recorded for security purposes. Para escuchar este mensaje en español, presione #dos . . . a pause, then . . .
Your call is very important to us.

We know what happened in the past, but we don’t really know why.

Uncle Archie was never really ready for work until he had a Kent fired up and stuck in the corner of his mouth.

His hand reached out to hers.
She takes his hand -
A double troth
of two souls made one.

In the course of my lifetime I have watched America devolve from a nation of hardy self-reliant individualists into a nation of namby-pamby hyper-sensitive crybabies.

I carefully lowered the stylus and dialed the volume to recklessly high.

I went to the dark end of the inventory shelves, pressed my forehead against the wall, and indulged myself in a few moments
of quiet despair.

“Love hurts”, the poets sing. Over and over they remind us that Cupid’s arrow pierces the heart.

We took a month-long vacation and went on a rambling tour of the Great America West. We didn’t have any real iterery, although we did have one planned stop. A vist to Les, who had finally made parole.

Knock briskly. Look straight into the narrowed suspicious eyes behind the screen door. Extend your hand as though to shake hands and say. ”Hi, got a minute”?