Musings From Paradise

Sooney quietly spoke with her mother over the five thousand mile phone cable, her expression announcing grave news. Our daughter Alicia’s only Grandpa Don had died. With the news, a period of reflection began; anguishing with guilt at our having chosen to teach overseas, limiting the quality time spent with Don. Then there was a tearful journey through the photo album, an anecdote forthcoming with each snapshot.
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I was fired. Actually, two-thirds of its palindrome is how the district put it—”RIFFed.” Reduction In Force Forced. Our family fortunately still had one wage earner covering the mortgage and providing health benefits. And I fit nicely into the parent part of our (then) ten-year-old daughter’s parent-participation classroom. And, hey, for the first time I’d get to collect unemployment. Not bad for someone approaching middle-aged.
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Sept. 2003

The aroma of wildflowers, warmed by the summer sun, permeated the thin, alpine air. Their delicate beauty accompanied the fragrance, and by rolling my head from side to side I was presented with two different bouquets—red and blue to the right, yellow and white to the left. The lovely Edelweiss mirrored the wispy clouds floating in the intensely blue sky.
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Submitted to Sun Magazine: Readers Write on “Guns” (for July, 2007, issue)

“Ping.” The .22 had killed again. I drove in another cartridge, clicked on the rifle’s safety catch, and resumed my walk.

Shooting was a weekly activity for years when I was a kid. Every Saturday morning, a neighbor and I would somehow end up at the Glendale Police shooting range as members of the National Rifle Association’s junior marksmanship program.
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