There was probably not much more bad that could happen to it, the Modest Mouse shirt, so I put it in the dryer with the rest and closed the lid. And I checked on the girls because the door was… Read More ›
Memoir
Faces in the driftwood the color of bone
At the Starbucks in Aberdeen on the Washington peninsula halfway to the coast with the kids and Ginger, the condiment bar a shit-show, the aftermath of a frat party, a scene from Weird Science but with milk stains and sugar wrappers and… Read More ›
That last trip to Teanaway
The dog Ginger, car camping for two nights, trying to break the food addiction she picked up in Germany with the 24/7 on-demand treating and feeding, so hungry she’s licking a patch of dirt in the gravel road, licking what… Read More ›
Night falls on Teanaway
Ginger licks the sleep out of my eye, licks the insides of the rain fly for condensation, doesn’t understand tent etiquette or the idea of personal space, steals my sleeping bag each time I get up, looks like Kermit the… Read More ›
The stain that won’t abate becomes a feature
The never-ending stain on the rug at the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room has the tenacity of a birth mark, it’s as hard to remove, has become my daily penance, a Greek who’s upset the gods now on… Read More ›
Reed College walk, Portland
Spooling around southeast Portland with my childhood friend Loren, the guys with beards pouring growlers and pints at the neighborhood bottle shop flipping records, preparing dishes with fresh oysters, grated horseradish, a bed of sea salt. Past the antique shops where… Read More ›
Chameleon, don’t paint yourself the color of perfection
It was very late August that summer we stopped in Portland on the way to the Redwoods and Loren made me some CD with early Pink Floyd I hadn’t heard, and I waited to play it until we left a… Read More ›
Coming back, Perimeter Road (SeaTac)
All the houses in the new developments are the color of graham crackers with about as much variety as you’d find in the grocery store, the only difference is in the finishes. The CD player on the Honda Pilot keeps… Read More ›
First person singular
I forgot one of the things I like most about camping is getting dirt under your nails, that way your hands look like you’ve really done something when you haven’t, it makes your hands look honest, like they’ve got character…. Read More ›
Through the Portal-lands, camping with Charlotte
The boil-in-bag wild salmon backcountry meal didn’t have a date on it and I assumed no shelf life to speak of, no lot code, I got it at least a year ago, possibly two, probably still safe to eat. It… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 