One of the best things about the Register’s newish Soscol location is our redwood grove. It’s small — just three trees and a picnic table bordered by sidewalk— but surprisingly lovely.
You would think that the Courtneys would have had their fill of home improvement projects after living above their garage for more than a year while the back of their house was rebuilt.
I’ve had two obsessions these past two weeks. Number one, The Fires — how to survive them, how to report them, how to breathe their vapors (Was I stupid to jog twice, unmasked, in soupy conditions?).
Last spring Cheryl announced that several girlfriends from her childhood in Southern California — people I had virtually no knowledge of — were planning a three-day reunion, possibly on a houseboat on Lake Shasta.
After several years of being a California homebody, I took to the air two weeks ago for a family visit to southern Indiana and my first exploration of Chicago, a great city that’s also America’s murder capital.
There we were, my doctor and I, chatting all friendly about my diet and the amount of exercise in my life and I was thinking, Good job, Kevin. You’ve aced another annual physical.
Bob is my oldest friend. We met as college freshmen in New Jersey more than a half century ago. Though we have lived a continent apart since, we have managed to meet up a time or two each decade.
I haven’t slept well for two straight nights. I’ve lain awake thinking of my veteran coworker Pierce Carson who died last weekend. When I write his farewell, how do I do right by him?
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You never know where a conversation with your dentist will go. When I went in for a checkup this month, Dr. Gittings wanted to know where I was 50 years ago during the Summer of Love.
Another lunch hour. Parked in the Register lot, facing Soscol, I’m reading news on my iPad mini while eating my sandwich. Occasionally I take breaks to watch the traffic go by.