Once A Hero

. . . He sits there a moment cooling his feet on the brick. Parts of the last hour play keep-away in his head, popping up between throbs. His running on the hard sand. Diving deep through the crushing whitewater. The small scared screams. The judgement of current and the rip, the big waves.

Too Little, Too Late, Toodleloo

. . . So, this day, nearly 30 years after your death, I say this: Dad, I’m proud to be your son. I’m proud of your five war years and I’m proud you had the smarts and the luck and the skills to get through them. I’m sorry you knew too much of the canvas and the cold water, the primal fear, the wrenching loss, and the horrors of blood and bullet. I’m sorry you had to carry that particular psychic brand on your soul.

Lyda Wants To Weep

Lyda’s sorrow is quiet, but it has its own gravity; it is a force that tugs at her face and rounds her shoulders, and her sorrow carries the weight of false years.

Our Dance in the DDT

In the 50s all the boys in our neighborhood emerged from the womb in the same year, or so it seemed. Our fathers grew to adulthood in the strange and distant theatres of the War. They came home en masse and mounted our mothers en masse and voila, the many were born. And our mothers?... Continue Reading →

Old Dogs: I’m For ‘Em

A couple of months ago my old dog Stella started slowing down, walking behind me instead of running ahead, and panting after a good walk, which she never did before. Stella is a reject from the Nebolish Mastiff gene pool, rescued by son Pete from the ‘Big Shot’ when her collar was no bigger around... Continue Reading →

One Christmas I Dined Alone

by David Lambert A month before Christmas ’76 I hired on as a writer for a small newspaper in Burien WA, 20 miles south of Seattle. Back then Burien was a slow-life bedroom community that fed the newly awakening Seattle metro. I was a reporter with flair for soft news, features — and I was... Continue Reading →


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