That Christmas my grandmother bought me my first doll, a beautiful porcelain thing in white satin and lace, with blonde curly hair.

We were at my grandparents' farm in Iowa. There was a coal-burning stove - I remember my grandfather carrying in the cobs and coal. Cobs, because I suspect they burned corn cobs too. I seem to remember the room and the tree and boxes in the middle of the floor, and my parents and grandparents sitting in a semi-circle, their eyes riveted on me, their one beloved child. My sister was still a year away. Not to mention the four boys. Read more about First Christmas Memory

I've never met the little boy named James who died on Friday in Sandy Hook Elementary. But when I heard President Obama read his name, I thought, oh, yes, James. That's the little boy I know about. Read more about Mourning James

Cleaning house. I don't know why everyone seems to hate it so. I like it. Oh, the everyday gets repetitious and dreary, so it's not like I wake up in the morning thinking, Oh boy! Dishes. But then there are times like these.

I can't count the times I've moved over the years, but one thing I have learned from the experience. If you want to get to know a place, if you want to feel at home, if you want to stake your claim on a space and make it yours, clean it. Every last corner. Read more about Cleaning House

Got into another fascinating conversation with an old acquaintance of mine, Seattle's own Jim Page, that began with the question of whether or not the word "intelligence," as a human trait, was ever used in the gospels. I had to shove my oar in with the supposition that perhaps "intelligence" was what was then meant by "wisdom." And the back and forth began. Read more about The Evolution of an Argument

The Thanksgiving air seems filled with angels taking uninvited seats upon shoulders, angels whispering "remember, only one scoop of mashed potatoes," "you probably don't need all that gravy," "don't forget, just a tiny sliver of pumpkin pie, skip the whipped cream." And right after those angels, having done their worst, flutter off, another set flutters in and begins a whispering campaign to convince you that Christmas isn't about presents. You should rebel against buy, buy, buy. Your relatives - even your children - will be so much happier with gifts given to the poor in their name. Read more about Temperance

A looooong time ago, I knew this guy. Maybe you knew him too. He was kinda like a one-man drug store. You know, the kind of drugs you may have seen on police procedurals - how else could you possibly know about these things? The kind of drugs for which, apparently, a number of people have been arrested.

And he got away with it. He's still around, but no longer in business. He's not a millionaire, not even a thousandaire. He's got a real job and lives a quiet life and never spent a single day in jail. Read more about Private Parts

I have been working on the virtue of patience my entire life and I have to say, I haven't gotten very far. Anyone who thinks I have, who thinks I'm very patient, who thinks I am the very essence of delayed gratification, doesn't see the subtle machinations I have put in place to make that illusion possible.

For one thing, there are the books. Waiting for a cab? I have a book. Doctor's office? Book. A friend is running late? Am I ever mad? No. I had a book. Read more about Patience

Last night, before heading up to our District's election party, my friend Sarajane and I stopped by the medical cannabis party where another friend of mine, Margo Polley, gave a talk about our mutual friend Caroline Welch. Caroline's life was not all about medical cannabis - it was about a great many other things - but in the last months of that life medical cannabis was added to her list of causes. For good cause. Here is my friend Margo, talking about our friend Caroline: Read more about Caroline

Following is a letter from an ex-fiancee' and ruminations on past and present states of mind. The present herein referred to is actually 2007, when I first wrote about this, and the sciatica is long gone. Cured, I do truly believe, by a mule-back ride halfway down the Grand Canyon and back. But that belief may, in itself, corroborate my daughter's summation: Read more about Still the Same

Somewhere in my archives there is a promo pic for a stripper who called herself Champaine Biege, signed "Love, Champaine." It is a beautiful picture, and she is a beautiful woman. Unfortunately, this picture is not worth a thousand words.

I met Champaine when "Grampa" got out of prison. I don't even know Grampa's story - or if I ever did, I've forgotten it now. There was a "Grandma" - an older woman who hung out at the local biker bar, and when Grampa got out of prison, there was a huge party. Grandma was right there at the center of it, the good 'ol lady standing by her ol' man. Read more about Champaine Beige