Done. Done, but not finished. Done but the Kern County Soccer Park will live to see another day, another league and another generation.
Not much sun, lots of rain and we’re still blooming blooming. It’s hard to imagine what this place is going to look like with a couple of weeks of sun but if the early weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk and in the garden — front and back — are indications, this spring will be an explosion o…
Pay month and date no mind. March 20 or not (spring’s official start), we’re here. We’ve arrived. We’re good but good promises to get better.
A universal sign would be nice. Something like “Don’t panic, bathroom nearby.” In this case, raise one finger if I have something on my face, two if I’m clean as a freshly wiped countertop.
I’m a pro, OK. I helped raise four kids. I can take care of one 2½-year-old grandchild — a small fry — for a day. It’s not that hard and I don’t get why our children and their spouses are exhausted all of the time.
At a friend’s house for dinner, I noticed that the toilet would not flush. The handle was disengaged. Houston had lost touch with Apollo 13 and there would be no splashdown regardless of how energetically I jiggered.
It’s easy to ignore the desert but unwise to do so in the late winter and early spring when it can surprise and delight, and scatter seeds that may burst into bloom over the unfolding years.
Nora, our 2½-year-old granddaughter, came over. I thought we’d had fun. We had, but grandparents and parents are gateway fun. The glittering rides lie ahead.
Last week the showers at the pool were closed for maintenance. The “pool” is the McMurtrey Aquatics Center. Without a shower, because of the chlorination (sodium hypochlorite), swimmers risk looking as if they have brushed their faces against a salt lick.
I don’t know why I feel sorry for somebody when I see them walking over the Oak Street overpass, but I do. I wonder, how did they get there, where will they go next and what will they do when they arrive?
Tell me this doesn’t sound like a train wreck: Guitarist for a world-famous nu metal band, with custody of his 3-year-old daughter, tries to raise her in a mosh pit of drugs, dissolution and general dishevelment while he himself is wrestling with almost every demon known to man and the underworld.
Think Van Morrison with equally good material and a textured, New Orleans twang unlike any other voice in America and you have Andrew Duhon. The singer-songwriter’s upcoming performance at the Bakersfield Music Hall of Fame on Jan. 18 will be his third local appearance with Passing Through P…
For Christmas, Katie and Hunter gave me two Patagonia pullovers. A blue one and a tan one. The pullovers were miraculously light, miraculously soft and miraculously large.
Since Christmas vacation is a good time to see movies, we bought tickets for a Wednesday afternoon matinee of the new Mary Poppins movie.
Ray Mish called to report that he’s still alive. It was good to hear his voice since I thought there was a good chance he’d gone to the other side. I wouldn’t have bet the house on it but I would have refinanced it.
Earlier this week, I rode a Bird, one of those electric scooters that recently came to town. I wanted to wave to people and say, “Yes, this is me. I’m riding a scooter,” but I didn’t dare take my hands off the handlebars lest I fall or run over a soft, fleeing animal.
Recently, we had dinner at a friend’s house with five other couples. We raised kids together and now our kids have kids — 10 grandchildren between us. We’ve come full circle.
Last Saturday was the Bakersfield Master Chorale’s "Messiah" concert. This is the Christmas program, but Handel’s "Messiah" has a tendency to swamp the rest of the selections like high seas might a short-walled boat.
At home, she was Mom. It wasn’t until her children went to Alpha Beta with her before they realized their mother was bigger than Mom. She was a celebrity.
It is a luxury to fall asleep to rain, as we did last week, stir during the night to rain drumming on the composition roof and then wake up to rain dripping from the trees. That’s good-night and good-morning music.
Frank Fisher, aka Cranky Franky, eats breakfast at the “Pine” six days a week. That’d be seven if Fisher didn’t have coffee and a doughnut at church on Sunday.
I don’t know about anybody else, but I woke up stiff today. When I started walking, I was like a question mark with feet. My feel-age exceeded my chronological age by 20 years.
Jury duty is like hell: The quicker you accept that your options are limited, the better you’ll feel about it not being as hot as the literature suggests.