The fledgling nest never matches an old bird's memory. A family of cowbirds has moved in. Or maybe the tree is gone and there's a tennis court or gas station in its place. Return to your childhood home and find it bears no resemblance to the place where you grew up. The houses in the hood are smaller; some of their roofs are sagging. The neighbors have all moved or passed on. That safe, familiar suburb and the people who gave it its vibe are long gone. Even the smell is different. Only in your imagination, and in cyberspace, can you truly go home again. That brings us here, to this blog. It's been neglected, and yet, no cowbirds have moved in. It's not been paved over. The roof is intact. "I miss your writing," said the last, lonely commenter. How can I stay away with encouragement like that? Here's what's kept me occupied: Moulding young minds (mwahahahaha) is time consuming, or rather, all-consuming, especially when you're new at it. B
The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud