Winter, 1982-83, neck wrapped, leaning on the soft smells above the noonish counter in the cold gap between two multi-stories near Times Square, I ate sidewalk pizza as the flakes began to fall. They were whispers in the soft wind, but the weathermen waxed “much more, much more.”
By 3 p.m., the City was anticipating confusion and delay. An hour later, in a now-thick, straight-down snow drop, I fled employment and rib-rubbed Manhattan’s Friday Port Authority commuters, using a substitute stairway to escape the escalator-stalled crowd. By 5, outside was dense white, and I was westbound in my bus seat. Four hours later, my ostensible 22-minute passage finally ceased its snow-slog and stopped in the middle of a ten-mile thread of Route 3’s cold pack. Continue reading “My Last Blizzard”
It was the wrong season for whales. It was the wrong month for sea lions. The gulls only tolerated me and to be true, I enjoyed them only within my limited fascination for the inexplicable red spot on their yellow beaks. For the first 20 minutes, a lone brown pelican held my attention as it repeatedly wheeled over and anchovied point-first into a school unaware of summer vacation.
icing on a cakemaker’s masterpiece. Then the first symptoms appeared. Laughing into my Dos Equis, I guessed out loud that too much clean air could make a man dizzy, his knees a bit watery. I sat down and stared at the horizon, limply watching headache and nausea bobbing grimly across the deep, smelling my fear. Irrevocably, I released my beer and flopped down onto a deck cushion accustomed to human instability. I looked to my friend for help. He smiled wanly and ruddered right, turning the sun out of my face. He has a kind heart, but there was nothing else for him to do. I was seasick. 
As a kid, baseball was my sport. I was too short to be effective in basketball, no one played soccer in the 50’s, and although I was fast and could catch, my lack of bulk marginalized me in football. I played Little League, made the All-Star team, and loved the game. I played softball in organized leagues well into my 40’s.
Today is my birthday.
Drive north in the belly of Oregon through long, rolling rise-and-falls, seer-suckered by sagebrush, past scruff and cattle, persevering on 
There are sage pronouncements that should never be ignored.