Things reach a certain age, an age at which things don’t work the way they once did. The battery in your car,

If I owned a magazine I’d publish folks who agree with me as long as they remained abstract,

Old Tim writes poetry now in his heaven of retirement. He’s had nice jobs over the years but swears retirement is better.

I was out of control, spinning on the whirligig of youth, giddy to be caught in what Kerouac called “the whole mad swirl

In the fall we lose an hour in most of the United States when we have to turn our clocks back. This is not the case

I flew out to see a high school friend. from many years ago. He was poor back then and I was better off.

I should have said yes, meet you anywhere you want for lunch, even that greasy spoon with the lousy chili and corn dogs… Every five years or so we meet

This brilliant winter morning find… waves of snow on every lawn and red graffiti dripping from the walls of Temple Mizpah

On holidays I hear from Paul, who’s 80 if a day, who may have won his war on poverty without help from his friends. He won’t accept a cent.

I like to watch master chefs on television do their thing. My favorite is Jacques Pépin when he has to chop an onion. No one chops an onion faster.

The old poet has agreed to read his poems in Hanley Hall if a student will push his wheelchair on stage. Agreed. And students must agree not to ask

The Nazis call her Hilda, this ancient woman who makes a simple living in a bathroom in Berlin giving high colonics

He publishes poems by writers who find no publishers elsewhere. They suffer rejection and he gives them hope.

Despite the digital holocaust of computers and cell phones, Newberry Library remains the Vatican of books with the right sounds,

A rainy Sunday and Pastor Smith is in his pulpit bellowing to the congregation, “I hope you understand