Hauling out old journal entries. Here's one from 1979. One of the loves of my life and I had just moved to Seattle: Read more about The Stoner Diaries, I

I generally take Sundays off, but it's Mother's Day. Sorting through old files recently, I came across a letter I wrote to my son, Christopher, back in 1991, on his 25th birthday in June. I'll take tomorrow off. Today I'm remembering again.

Dear Chris: Read more about Mother's Day Memoirs

I became a birder years and years back, working at the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. As a secretary in the Public Relations office, I came to know many of the scientists - anthropologists, biologists, geologists - who worked away in tiny cubicles tucked under the eaves of the Field. My special favorite of all of them was Dr. Emmet R. Blake, Curator of Birds. Read more about Birding

I love trains. I used to ride the Wabash from Chicago's Union Station to my parent's home in Decatur (Decatuh, Decatuh, Soybean Capitol of the World!) Illinois. Read more about Ridin' That Train

April 23. St. George's Day. You know, St. George the Dragon Slayer? Patron Saint of England? Although, when I look him up, I find that he is originally a Roman soldier in the guard of Diocletian. And isn't a Roman soldier named George something straight out of Monty Python? Read more about Merry Georgemas!

Picture a critter of some kind - probably a racoon - that you might meet along the road. Put that critter on a birthday card, and imagine it as you read along.

This is from another of those yellowed pieces of paper found in an old file on which I scribbled the text before copying it onto the card. I'm throwing the paper away, but I have to keep the story.

I have started a project of clearing my old file cabinets. I believe this was written in Madison, Wisconsin, in the late summer of 1980, jotted in an old notebook with yellow paper, three pages of which were torn out and saved. It seems I might have been dealing with fears of my own: Read more about Fear

It's Charlemagne's birthday.

Just a few factoids.

His father was Pepin the Short, but I bet he never called him Shorty.

He couldn't read very well, but the promotion of learning in his time is called the Carolingian Renaissance. Read more about Happy 1270th, Charlie!

It was 1948 or so. I was five years old, and living in a little town of 300 Norwegian farmers called Badger, Iowa. My father ran the "corner store." I don't remember when he brought home the TV. I just remember that he opened a soda fountain (he was a teetotaler) in the basement of the store and invited the locals in to watch. I don't remember what was on back then, but I became an unapologetic TVidiot and remain one to this day. Read more about Don't Kill MY TV!