Mitchell Way
From the top of a tree, we clung to the remaining trunk which we could wrap our hands around.
Standing on branches below us which strained under our weight, we looked out over the forest treetops. We were at the same height as the giants. We were one of them.
Beak and Bill sat on the end of a dock at Lake Padden. The morning was cool, and a light fog drifted across the surface of the water.
The two met every morning during fishing season and sometimes out of season. It was not only a place to catch fish and banter the latest gossip, but it was also a place to sit quietly to let one’s mind drift before the busyness of the day began.
I met a man sitting on a sidewalk bench in Lynden the other day. He had a heavy Chicago Bears sweatshirt on, and it was obvious to me that he wasn’t a local.
I had a nudge from my inner self to say “hi”. He was a nice guy, but it was hard for me to understand the inner city slang he was using. Basically, I understood that he was in the county visiting a brother who had moved out from Chicago. The brother was encouraging him to move out before he got shot in the streets.
Iris and Lincoln Stodge live at 1835 Fernhook Lane, a very long drive through fields of corn which ends at the base of the Whatcom Timber Reserve. Iris and Lincoln are fourth and fifth graders.
To tell you the truth, it wasn’t until my late 20s that I learned the word hierarchy and the medical term pes cavus weren’t the same thing. I should never trust the images in my mind.
It has happened again — another run-in with my nemesis the seagulls at work. At this point in their lives they are almost 3/4s the size of an adult with dark gray feathers. They can flutter their wings but they can’t fly and they still rely on mom and dad for food. They nest on the upper monitor roof in my building. Between the monitor and the main roof there is a five-foot open area running the full length of my ¼ mile building. This is how the juvenile gull entered into my lower work area. His name is Jonathan.
Ricky Dandelion and his wife, Venice lived not far outside the city limits of Bellingham. Along with their house, barn, and out-buildings, they owned eight acres of fenced pastureland on which they grazed cattle — six cows and a bull.
Listen my children and you shall hear of the afternoon ride of Bucky the Deer. Do not turn aside and say, “Grampa is aged,” for I’ve heard that enough from my Progressive agent. Think of this tale and the facts thereof, as a warning to the perils of being in love. . .
After the embarrassing little roof incident where Taylor got a good chewing out by Nel and Greg got a black eye, it was decided that they would take Jason’s advice and seek out his friend Jen for proper training in rope rappelling. This was done without Nel’s knowledge.
It was a hot, dry summer day and Taylor was sitting in his Adirondack chair in the shade of the east side of the store. It was his second break of the day, and his wife Nel was inside helping customers. In his hand he held a can of Cola, and another sat in a cooler by his feet. As usual at this time of day, he heard the crunching of feet on gravel walking his way. He lifted the bill on his Ranger cap and looked up the road.
The Lake Erie Grocery had just reached its 100th anniversary. It was considered a historic building by the state of Washington and its ownership had been passed through several families since it had been built. Located 5 miles from the closest town of Anacortes, Washington, the grocery sat in Erie Valley on the shore of Lake Erie. Towering 1273′ beside it, like a sleeping giant made of feldspar and diorite, was the bald face of Mt. Erie.
My saddle bags were full as I rode slowly down the graveled lane. Beneath me I could hear the ever-present clip, clip, clip, clip. The old girl was due for a check-up.
This was the area of the ambushes. They were happening almost daily now. I lowered my hand and felt the cold steel of my gun butt. It gave me little confidence.
My wife Cheryl is fond of saying, “Why do movie and television screenwriters put out so many clever plots for burglaries? Don’t they realize they are feeding criminal minds, ideas for robberies which they wouldn’t have thought up on their own?”
My daughter, Kalene, got me started walking the Hovander Dog Park. It follows the dike of the Nooksack River as it flows through Ferndale. I have lived in Ferndale for 37 years and have visited the large Hovander farm off and on but never walked the dog area until her dog, Milton Barry, came into my life.
I was sitting in my Laboratory for Creative Ideas slowly sipping on a mug of coffee and blankly staring at my computer screen. I was stuck with a case of brain dryness. A literal Sahara desert of sand in my skull where my brain should be. Then I heard it — aggressive rapping on my window.