Nathaniel Hawthorne’s "Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe" - An Essay
A rumor can outrun a man’s own footsteps, yet it’s the living breath of truth that finally catches up. I read Nathaniel Hawthorne ’s “ Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe ” this morning. And though it isn’t one of the stories folks usually brag about reading, it’s got a certain hometown flavor to it, the kind of tale you might hear from an older neighbor leaning against his truck in the driveway, telling you a story he swears is true even though the details keep sliding around on him.
The Whistler on Harris Hill
Spoken by One Who Didn’t Listen People around Elmira tell the story different ways, but it always starts on the north side, where the Chemung drags slow through town and the hills decide who they’re going to notice.
The Ferryman Waits
Not all who wait at the threshold mean to enter. Some wait for you to step out. Fog thickens...congeals - the way dread settles when it chooses a host. Only then do I notice the lake breathing again, its exhalation brushing my skin like a hand returning from earth with something to confess.
October in Stockbridge
A New England reflection We came where Berkshire whispers dwell, To walk the streets where silence fell On painted doors and windowpanes, Where autumn’s breath through white walls strains.
A Fireside Carol
The wind outside begins to wail, a snowstorm rattles roof and rail. But here within, all calm and clear, I sit beside the fire’s cheer. My beagle curls up at my feet, his steady breath, a rhythmic beat. The flames dance low in amber light, against the hush of winter’s night. With A Christmas Carol in my hand, I drift through Scrooge’s ghostly land - past Marley’s chains and Tiny Tim, each page a world, both bright and grim. Outside, the world is lost in white, but in this room, the heart feels light. No finer joy could I have planned than Dic…
Quarter Nights & Greyhound Dreams - 1986
1986 was a year of rust - and prayer. I worked two jobs, three jobs, six days, seven if the Lord looked the other way. Didn’t rest, didn’t dream, just kept on like a broke-down Buick with a cough in its soul. That old '63 LeSabre - Blue as my mood, fading like hope - her grandma gave it, God bless her - and we rode it on fumes, on faith, on three dollars of gas at a time. Three bucks. You hear me? That’s a couple gallons and some change, back when gas still showed mercy. We rolled slow, so the needle stayed up, and the money didn’t run out…
