Two of my favorite essayists are David Sedaris and Joel Stein. But I have a problem with them. When I read them I find myself thinking, “Dang, now I can’t write about that and that’s an idea I know I could’ve come up with, had I not picked up that dumb book.”

For this reason, and others, I think reading is overrated. I mean, it’s something I’ve been doing for a half a century, and where has it gotten me? I’ll tell you where, not very far. Today, I work just two blocks from the old Carnegie Library in Idaho Falls where Mom used to deposit me while she “ran errands.” I think she thought she was investing in my future. Fat chance.

Andrew Carnegie took a chance on me, and a few others, by investing in libraries. In the early 1900s, his foundation provided grant monies to build more than 2,500 libraries, eleven of them here in Idaho, nine of which are still standing, and three that still have aisles of books for browsing and borrowing. Continue reading →

It’s a month post-Christmas, and if I were in charge the decorations would still be up. Yes, I enjoy the holidays, but not so much that I want them never to end.

I think I’m a decent Santa. There are certainly better. But the fact is, I’m always ready for it to end. I need to get my emotions back to a place I can navigate, a place where my actions aren’t dictated by sugar plum fairies, angels, wise men and carriage rides over the hill to Grandmother’s house—because Grandmother isn’t there anymore.

In a world where I am the lone stagehand, the Christmas stage would stay up. I’d simply move to another venue come January. It’s the taking down, the boxing of memories, the children’s kindergarten popsicle ornaments, and Grandma’s faded star that throw me off. And “off” is not the best place to start the New Year. Continue reading →

My wife and I have an understanding. The last one out of bed makes the bed. Now, if you were to suggest that I leap from bed each morning the instant I feel my wife stir, I’d deny it. But I haven’t made the bed in a good many years.

Interestingly, by the time I step from the shower, I can bounce a quarter off the smooth bedspread into my pressed shirt pocket. I remember to kiss my bride goodbye as she hurries to work at the museum. Continue reading →

My mother loves life. Each new day is her laboratory, where she observes and learns for the sheer fun of it.

She looks forward with excitement to each coming adventure, whether it’s a drive to see the Independence Day parade in Hailey, attending Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s keynote speech in Boise at the Andrus Center’s Women’s Leadership Conference or an afternoon appointment with the pest control guy.

“Have you noticed? We haven’t had any daddy longlegs since I started inviting that nice young man over,” she says with a triumphal grin.

I’d like to be like Mom. But as middle age has settled in, like an Idaho January, I wax more and more ambivalent toward approaching festivities. For, as Mom has demonstrated, mental engagement and happy anticipation directly relate to one’s state of contentment, which in turn governs the rate of time passage. Every giggle and guffaw, every epiphany, increases the speed of time. Now, I’m not wild about middle age, but I’m guessing it’s decidedly better than the next stage. So I’m tempted to slow time by sitting indefinitely in front of re-runs of The Bachelorette.

I need a better plan.

It would seem the longer I live, the more I could afford the occasional time-warp speed brought on by solving a riddle or a summer slippery slide. Continue reading →

When my package failed to arrive again last week, I phoned customer service. The unaffected voice across the wireless connection replied, “The mailroom didn’t get the fax.”

Interpretation: “I’m sorry, I forgot to fax the order to the mailroom so they would know to ship it.” In fairness, her words were accurate and informative. And, if she managed to fax the order yet that day, the mailroom clerk would receive it, and I’d eventually receive my package.

Years ago, when I was studying Spanish, I was a wide-eyed guest in an Argentine home. We were sitting around a cozy breakfast table when my hostess dropped an open carton of milk as she turned from the fridge. She used a word I couldn’t later find in my dictionary, then added, “La leche se me cayo’.”

She hurried, armed with a dishcloth, to staunch the spreading river of milk. I sat inert and laboriously translated her words in my head.

Life is full of tiny epiphanies. She wiped and wrung and wiped and wrung while I worked through the translation. I dawned with a new understanding—just as she rose from her hands and knees. I was pleased with my ability to translate the phrase, but better, the effort brought new meaning.

Directly translated, she had said, “Bleep. The milk fell from my hands.” Continue reading →