I received an email recently that began: “I found the fierce bison underpants.”
My daughter Pickle and I are walking the dog yet again, traveling the dirt road loop that stretches around our neighborhood.
I live on an Island filled with wooded trails but for years rarely visited them. My children do not like to ruminate while pondering the burnt orange leaves of fall.
I am rummaging around in my past in Tallahassee, Fla., here for a memorial service for Ned Stuckey-French, a former professor and friend who died too young.
Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson is my spirit animal. My daughter’s too. I suppose I should explain.
From my perch on a park bench I sit and watch my daughter age.
When I was a freshman in high school my hero got his ear chewed off in a bar fight in the parking lot of the Four Roses Bar.
