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little houses … for the birds
The boughs of a Chilean mesquite tree hang low in our backyard, weighed down with wind-chimes and things that twirl and spin in warm desert winds. From the uppermost branches, hang bird houses of weathered wood, treasures crafted from trash scavenged by artisan, David Bruce. In his hands, scrap lumber and sheet metal, random doorknobs, rusty garden fixtures, old silver forks and spoons are turned over and into art. For about a decade, Bruce constructed these brightly colored whimsical abodes that could withstand the Phoenix weather. His shop, “Weathered Wonders,” a welcome splash of Dr. Seuss-decor on an otherwise humdrum street in Phoenix, was displaced in 2009 when the ubiquitous Circle K moved in. Were…
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celebrate the ordinary . . . what’s in your wallet?
Marie’s challenge to Celebrate the Ordinary reminded me of something I used to ask of my Freshman Composition students. Along with formal essays and the dreaded research paper, I required my students to keep a journal, informal “observations and speculations,” the first of which involved contemplating the contents of one’s wallet and surmising what a stranger might guess about the owner’s identity if he or she were to find it. Thankfully, this was before any of us knew very much about Suze Orman and her thoughts on untidy wallets, Women and Money. My wallet is a kind of half-way house for an assortment of business cards handed to me at long-ago conferences, crumpled…
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Uncategorized
i’m registered
The last time I was asked about a registry was about fifteen years ago, within the context of the room where my unborn child would eventually sleep. Would it be pink or blue? All things nice, sugar and spice or frogs and snails and puppy dog tails? Lumbering around Babies ‘R’ Us, the week before the birth of my daughter, I still had not registered. I could not bring myself to make a list (the way I had only ever done for Santa Claus) of presents people might buy to celebrate the arrival of a new baby. It felt demanding. More than that, if I am truthful, it felt presumptuous,…
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Greg Smith MD writes about growing up and growing older, about accepting ourselves as we are and where we are . . . today.
