When I was a child, I listened to the words of Big Wicked Bill and cried for the dog.
Now my heart knows why Stuart Hamblen sang, “Sometimes in the hush of an evening when the winds have grown tired and are stilled, By the fire, I sit dozing and dreaming letting memory bring back what she will…
Trying to write about myself, back through time, my mind wanders; I smell high-bush cranberries ripening in Alaska autumn, creosote bushes after a summer cloudburst, my horse loping through the Arizona desert. The silken feel of a newborn baby nursing at my…
It seems oddly unfair somehow. It’s July, day after day, the temperature stays over one hundred degrees and the nights are seventy-five and humid.
All I want from my garden is crisp lettuce, juicy tomatoes, and yes, maybe a watermelon.
Not midwest hot and humid with nights in the mere sixties and days in the eighties. This is Texas hot, Arizona hot.
And no, we can’t grow lettuce outside in the summertime. Now, December, yes. Primetime for greens is in the winter for us down here in the Sunbelt.
I spend a lot of time talking to new gardeners, and…
I never expected it to be this hard. Possibly, writing a memoir while feeling lonely during the forced isolation of a pandemic is not the wisest choice I’ve ever made. Or, just maybe, it’s given me the time to dig deeper than I might otherwise have done.
“In some ways, writing a memoir is knocking yourself out with your own fist, if it’s done right,” Karr writes in The Art of Memoir.
I was born in July 1953. In August, Alfred Kinsey released his book Sexual Behavior in the Human Female. …
Have you ever published something and gotten a resounding echo in response? Nobody read your article, the editor rejected your book, or you sold one lonely e-book?
What went wrong? You thought your writing was interesting, structured properly, and your grammar was correct. I’ve had this happen, and it sucks!
The answer, “Because I think it’s good,” or “Because I think it’s funny, interesting, or educational,” won’t work.
Next question. “How do I discover what my reader cares about?”
Most of my writing is for business blogs and websites. I must know what my reader is interested in. …
When my daughter was young, I got her a pony named Mandy.
Mandy was lonely and would constantly get out of her corral.
Now, she didn’t go far — we’d find her a quarter mile away with her head companionably over the fence, visiting with the neighbor's horse, Nugget. Horses are such social animals; they aren’t content when deprived of a herd.
Unlike our pony, which was fine when we got another horse, humans often remain lonely. And it doesn’t just make us sad—it can make us sick.
A research study found that 35% of adults 45+ reported frequently feeling…
Tens of millions of people worldwide grew home gardens during both World Wars. In fact, it’s estimated that over 40% of America’s fresh vegetables were produced in these home gardens.
“Man-computer symbiosis is an expected development in cooperative interaction between men and electronic computers. It will involve very close coupling between the human and the electronic members of the partnership.”
— Dr. J.C.R. Licklider, Man, Computer, Symbiosis, 1960.
Sixty years after Licklider wrote these words, we are not achieving the hoped-for symbiosis. If computers had the capacity, they might feel just as frustrated with us.
The cause of frustration is not a lack of computing power, poorly built applications, or even badly designed interfaces. …
Books form the foundation of my life — along with children, family, nature, dogs, and friends — if you’re curious.
I have eight special books I’ve cared for and moved with me over the last fifty years. I’ve packed and hauled them from Alaska to Arizona to New Mexico and finally to Texas.
I wondered, Why had I kept these eight books? What is the true story behind why I’ve kept these particular ones, some for more than sixty years?
I’m writing my memoir, which begins when I was turning four, and my father had gone to Alaska without the…
Did you ever think about time when you were a child? No, I don’t mean how long until school is out? or how long until my birthday?
I mean, time, as in will I have enough? or am I spending it wisely?
Specifically how much of it I’ve spent mindlessly. And how my parents perhaps didn’t think of it enough, until suddenly, the family was grown.
There’s no right and no wrong way to spend time, but now I mean to use it with intent. At least most of the time.
Way back when—I found an 1865 two-cent coin. I…