A Spooky Story

When I got up this morning, there was a pot of hot coffee ready.  That’s all.  End of story.

Oh, except for the part about how I live alone.  And I did not make that coffee.

100 Coyotes, Three Cathedrals, and One Serial Killer

Previously, I described how a wealthy third grade friend sparked a love of nature within me.  She led me through woods, across swamp, and to the bank of a river that were all part of her family’s property, and I found them every bit as voluptuous as the mansion that fronted their land. Then I had the great fortune to spend summers at my grandfather’s cabin in the Pocono Mountains (the grandfather who fed me ice cream, not the grandfather who fed me wine).  It was a time and place when kids could roam freely, and play by circadian rhythms…