During August of 2013, I spent most of my waking hours sitting with Mom. She was dying. Just weeks before, in July, I had traveled

I am a writer. I am a fool. Don’t those two sentences have similar meanings? Putting the pen to blank paper or facing a blank

  Was it my last backpack? Yes. No. Maybe. When reflecting on my hikes into the mountains, I confess to crafting them towards the dramatic.

Far and away, the most comments at Hospice Matters were from those whose dying loved one didn’t die. They lingered. In 2016, I wrote Why

What to pay the pastor . . . The best man strode purposefully towards me after the wedding service. He was pale, skinny, and so

There is no known evidence of a Kodak moment to reinforce my mighty exploits. Whenever I’ve been asked about first childhood recollections, this is the