Deke N. Blue is My Alter-Ego

https://fromthedriverside.blogspot.com/2020/03/day-one-my-corona-virus-journal.html

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15 Percent Was Just Enough to Say Farewell

It’s been a week now since “Our Father Who Art in Chino Valley” left behind a legacy of love, humor and integrity. I’m still numb from losing him, but feel my hero’s spirit is smiling down upon this heartbroken soul. My love for him poured out as I wrote his eulogy. It was vital to

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The Rigged Beer Can Regatta

My plan to win the Beer Can Regatta was simple at first: just throw a can into the water with everyone else and hope it beat the rest of the competitors. Due to a simple mistake and some quick thinking, I managed to test the ambiguous rules of this event while pulling off an upset

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Migratory Fondness

“There are places I remember All my life, though some have changed Some forever, not for better Some have gone, and some remain All these places have their meanings With lovers and friends I still can recall Some are dead and some are living In my life, I’ve loved them all…”   In My Life

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The Shocking Stocking Caper

Testing each step, I found the carpet in the living room and made for the fireplace. It was so dark I could barely see the outlines of furniture. “Ouch!” I whispered as a toe found Mom’s steel ashtray. “Oomph!” as my tummy ran into Dad’s music stand. Finally, I made contact with the hearth. One, two, three stockings I felt. Excitedly, I grasped mine. It was full of unseen wonders. Curious to know what all lay inside, I stuck to the mission, feeling around until a likely suspect came to my grasp. It had to be chocolate, I just knew it.

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Dear Ma

Dear Ma, Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the day you left this plane. Just as you preferred, no tears, no debilitating Irish black funk. Whenever you came to mind, many times, I remembered this picture of you and Dad. And that, dear Ma, helped me to smile, instead of pouring out the remaining grief.

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Dad, My Pilot Hero

His eyes don’t focus as they once did, but the twinkle in them remains bright. Cochlear nerve damage from piloting a small plane for hundreds of hours has silenced the magic of his classical guitar and velvet tenor voice, yet his laugh is strong. Not even the loss of his beloved wife of 52 years has dampened

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Once Upon a Small Desert Town

Back when television consisted of four or five channels, with midday programming limited to soaps, we depended on an active imagination to avoid idleness. My dad loved to hear me say “I’m bored”. It gave him a break, because he sentenced me to hard labor if I dared whine “there’s nothing to do!”. There was no recourse; if I said it, he had an instant cure for boredom: a long list of chores. Thanks to Dad, I learned to pursue creative endeavours and invent adventures.

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