The Devil's Gift

When it comes to peace, I’m a hopeful pessimist. I don’t expect the advent of peace anytime soon.

Doom and gloom fills the news these days. So it’s a good time to light the Advent candle of hope and call to mind signs of hope.

Last Saturday I saw my grandfather’s tombstone for the first time. Jacob Tremba died in 1922 at the age of 53, leaving a wife and 10 children behind.

Part 1 ended with the Dalai Lama standing on my porch.

The devil paid me a visit this week. He’d let himself in. (The devil never knocks.)

Last Sunday evening Paula and I sat on a small balcony outside our third-story room at the Waterside Inn in Chincoteague watching the sun sink slowly over the bay.

Today is my 45th wedding anniversary. Paula’s too. It takes two.

Last Saturday I went to a garden party to celebrate the publication of Steve Altman’s new book. It’s a 202-sonnet homage to John Keats. Oh, boy!

In California, we were required to wear masks in all public places. Same with Oregon and Washington. And then we crossed into Idaho.

This past weekend I saw two sons of Shepherdstown—one in a wheelchair, the other in an enduring funk. Each has been through countless rehabs. One has triumphed over tragedy. The other still struggles.