When I walked into the condo in Mammoth, there was a keyboard on the dining-room table, sheet music and some how-to guides. Three weeks from now, Mom turns 90. What better time to learn.
Last week was the last week. I’m wistful and I’m not. Wistful because second- graders are becoming third-graders, third becoming fourth and fourth closer to, "Goodbye, Mama and Papa." Meanwhile, parents are doing their best to slow down this rocket ship.
Strike almost-one for the guide was that he looked like my ex-brother-in-law. Athletic, sparse beard and laid-back take on most subjects.
Thomas, our youngest, cooks for a living, both privately and in restaurants. Most recently he lived with us while working for a local family, before taking off for a five-month stint at a restaurant in Gloucester, Mass.
I was talking to a friend. He knows vaguely what I do for a living. “Vaguely” because it is vanity to expect anybody to know what you do for a living.
“Did you know that we never recorded our marriage certificate?" Sue said recently. “I went to the Hall of Records to get our affairs in order and found that although we were legally married, we apparently never turned in the paperwork."
The first hot day, you don’t think you’re going to make it. I’m not going to make it, you say to yourself. Summer hasn’t even started.
Hal “Comet” Bopp emailed about the column on an orange snowflake and a white styrofoam ice chest flying out of the back of the truck on the way to the dump:
Recently we went to a party where they were serving appetizers, one of which came in the shape of a crescent moon and featured a meat filling housed in a crispy crust.
I made a Smart & Final run recently. I bought Windex, Lemon Clean Pledge, a package of Soft Scrubs and a mixed case of San Pellegrino Limonata (which may be the best drink on the planet) and Aranciata (orange).
A few days ago, I became an ordained minister. “An ordained minister.” I like the sound of it. It’s as if I were chosen and had no choice other than to say, “Yes, I will serve.”
Sunday is a good day to go to the dump. Every day is a good day to go to the dump. However, cool, spring and a truck bed loaded with overflow from the garage is a day that says, “Look out, dump. Soon I’ll be driving through your pearly gates.”
Steve and Vickie Murray recently lost their youngest son, Sean, who died three days after his 26th birthday. To say he was loved would risk understatement.
Hard to look at the river and not want to float down it. Hard not want to go from here to there. Hard not want to enter as one person and exit another.
Wind Wolves Preserve is located southwest of Bakersfield off of highway 166. Heavy rain has brought an abundance of vegetation as spring comes to the preserve.
The Panorama Vista Preserve suffered through years of drought but this year, after a series of storms came through, vegetation has returned making the area north of the Panorama Bluffs east of Manor Drive a perfect place for a hike.
In honor of Easter, I may have laid an egg in Tuesday’s column about In-Shape (aka the Laurel Glen Tennis Club), which is closing at the end of April.
Recently we checked into a hotel. The friendly woman at the front desk asked for our names, confirmed our reservation and then looked up and asked if we wanted a room for the handicapped. I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly so I asked if she might repeat it.
There is a sweetness to Bakersfield, and you see it in force when somebody opens a new restaurant. Restaurant, doughnut shop, anything food.
I dropped my new sunglasses recently. They had been in my hat. Before I could catch them, my hands panicked and collided, and the glasses hit the concrete floor.
I learned something while paddling in the ocean. Trying to get from the shore — the sand — to beyond, where the waves are breaking. Inside to outside.
It’s surprising how many people have had surfboards fly off the tops of their cars. I met two at the pool on Wednesday who had it happen, and one of them was a fireman. I assumed firemen were expert at tying knots and exempt from surfboards misbehaving and ending up in the ice plant on the s…
I went surfing in Ventura recently, which required strapping two boards to the top of the Jeep — a 9-foot, 8-inch paddle board and the Wavestorm, a foam board from Costco.
Things happen in the locker room. Things that may be an opportunity to discover who you are, where and how are you. Things that might deliver the reckoning you did not expect, but require in order to keep you current and awake.
I read an article recently in the New York Times Magazine about an event called the Ice Mile. It is a mile swim in 41-degree or colder water. Only 243 people in the world have completed it.
I drove through the Kern Canyon to Lake Isabella earlier this week. The river was fat and brown. This was no time to drive off the road, I thought, because if you do, you will die and your car won’t be of much use to anybody in your family.
Its easy to forget about McDonald's. In-N-Out will make you forget. You see lines of cars snake around the building and you can forget everything including your name, rank and serial number.
Jay Smith emailed to say that Bakersfield’s Frank Bidart has a poem in the Jan. 23 edition of The New Yorker. He added that “Mourning What We Thought We Were,” might not be terribly complimentary toward his hometown but if the poem is good and is true, who cares.
The tree across our fence is loaded with oranges. These are January oranges, February oranges, the longer-they-stay-on-the-tree-the-sweeter-they-become oranges.