On The Fly

My fondest baseball memories were not spring training or a visit to a major league ballpark; it was not meeting a famous ballplayer (although you could not pry my treasured official Mickey Mantle bat at that time, from my fingers). For me, it was learning to catch lighting ; and field line drives with my Dad. As a youngster, my attention was not on major league baseball (see, A Budding Cubs Fan ). The game, at that level, was always backgrounded noise from an old transistor radio tuned to 720  WGN Chicago. In Cuba, Illinois fans chewed on one another over the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals. For our family, baseball was always something we participated in, not something we paid to watch. My father (everyone calls him Doc) was an exceptional underhand fastpitch softball hurler for Cuba Merchants, a little-known team in Central Illinois. Back then, every small town had a team, and the local ball-field was where families gathered on the weekends. After he enlisted in ...

What is writing? I catch myself asking that question almost every day now. What prompted this was listening to one of my favorite Podcasts, The Thomas Jefferson Hour . The creator, Clay Jenkinson was interviewed (some would say cross-examined) by his recent guest host, an attorney, about his life in Bismarck North Dakota. They discuss “Writing” with a capital W and a sense of place. This got me thinking.  Am I a writer? If the definition is, One who is paid to produce works that derive income or royalties , the answer is a resounding no. However, if it's someone who every morning parks his hind-side at a desk and taps away at a keyboard attempting to clarify his thinking, improve written communication skills, synthesize experiences and knowledge, I emphatically say in a sonorous voice, Yes . I leave it up to you, the reader to make your own assessment. Sense of place? My attempt to share a “sense of place” is my fictional creation Hercule Peridot . Indeed, th...

Admittedly, it's a little geeky (A person who is single-minded or accomplished in scientific or technical pursuits but feels socially inept), wandering around Tucson, Arizona, pawing gingerly through boxes of terminated quartz crystals, looking for that remarkable specimen . . . or was it Tiger Iron? Indeed, when Gemologists converge on Tucson, the socially inept are unreservedly transformed! Lori Tucson 2013 In February 2013, gemstone and mineral aficionados converged once again in Tucson, Arizona, to play in the desert. Cold mornings, warm afternoons, the glow of sunrise on the mountains, magnificent golden, green, and orange hues, the fresh smell of the dry desert air, and, of course, the majestic Carnegiea gigantea (Saguaro) Cactus. In years past, during economic prosperity, finding a room in Tucson during this show would not have been possible. Fortunately, we found a comfortable room. Granted, it was seven miles from downtown. Yes, we waited until the very last minu...