On The Fly

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . .  Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...

Have you heard of our hero, the marvelous Vo? The brainiest brain in the solar-cell show! When inverters go KLUNK! and transformers go FIZZ! The whole place erupts: “WHERE THE HECK IS THAT WHIZ?!” He bounds through the chaos; he leaps through the smoke, While lesser-sized geniuses cough, wheeze, and choke. With NextWave in orbit, his V-Team aligned, He can fix what’s gone wrong before YOU’VE even whined! Now here come the rookies, all polished and new, In plastic pajamas of spotless bright blue. Their manuals gleam and their hairdos are slick, But a speck on a panel makes each of them sick! “Don’t scratch me! Don’t scuff me! Don’t put me to work! I’m a premium product, not some common old jerk! I’m pristine! I’m perfect! I’m fresh off the shelf!” (Then a tiny cloud passes and ruins their health!) “Poppycock!” cries Vo. “That’s the silliest stuff! A gadget’s not useful just looking all buff! You don’t become REAL by avoiding each dent; You become REAL by the hours you’ve spent!” So le...

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

Whenever you step into an American cathedral of our National Pastime built before modern ergonomics, municipal zoning, or crowd-flow dynamics, an unspoken understanding forms, creating a welcoming, timeless atmosphere. You trade legroom, sensible corridors, and personal space for the privilege of communing with ghosts. Last week, Lori and I made our pilgrimage to Fenway Park to watch our Chicago Cubs take on the Boston Red Sox (a taut 0–2 contest that felt spiritually tied to their 1918 World Series meeting). Staying just across the Charles River at the Courtyard Marriott in Cambridge gave us one immeasurable tactical advantage: we walked. While the automotive gridlock around Kenmore Square took on the character of the Siege of Yorktown—horns echoing across the asphalt like musket fire—we simply strolled across the Boston University Bridge, enjoying the river breeze and feeling smugly superior to everyone trapped behind a steering wheel. Fenway, built in the spring of 1912, holds rough...

The morning in Vista often begins under a heavy, gray marine layer that rolls in from the coast, pressing a damp, muffled stillness over the neighborhood. At 4:30 a.m., the driveways are still full. The local commuters are either blissfully unconscious or stumbling blindly toward their showers, clinging desperately to their last shred of peace before the nine-to-five grind claims them for the day. I, on the other hand, am voluntarily wide awake in the dark. When your agenda consists of absolutely nothing, it is critical to get an early start. Inside the house, the quiet is profound, broken only by the sharp, mechanical click of the kettle as it reaches a rolling boil. I stand at the counter, watching the dark ground coffee bloom as hot water hits the French press's stainless steel. The smell is sudden and heavy—a deep, roasted-earth aroma that cuts through the morning fog. I push against the plunger’s gritty resistance, pouring a cup that radiates dark, stinging heat against my pal...