The Big and Small of It By Dean Worbois Was it a big town or a small city? I was raised in both, choosing my environment by what I was looking for at the time. It was the 1940s, ’50s … Continue reading →
To a Music Man Story and Photos by Dean Worbois The last gift from Rod Simpson’s place was a half-gallon of Kentucky bourbon whiskey. To be precise, it was one-and-three-quarters liters. Rod always topped off his busy day with a … Continue reading →
And a Tunnel of Light By Dean Worbois For the most part, my dad was a rule-respecting guy. But what was he supposed to do when there was a major construction site to check out and no signs saying not … Continue reading →
My mother had a way with plants, and her flowers were a summer-long frenzy of color.
She always planted daylilies, their long stems holding up orange clumps of color to the height of car windows passing by the southwestern corner of our Boise property. This was one-half of a block of land my folks bought in 1947, when I was two. The block was a garden and cow pasture owned by a Mr. Quarbridge, who had never developed it. Continue reading →
The second time I spotted him lolling about on the top of the feeder, I grabbed a broom and rushed out the door, waving my threatening wand and yelling like a mad dog. The squirrel rather curiously observed all this until I actually started to swing, at which point he quickly and rather casually jumped down to run off. Sure, I pulled my swing, because I didn’t want to bash apart the feeder or actually hurt this talented squirrel, but I figured the near-miss and my angry scolding would teach him a lesson.
Silly me. Teach a squirrel a lesson where food is involved? Instead it only seemed to make an alarm of the back door latch. Now the squirrel had time to saunter off. Continue reading →