In The Cigar Box

With a bit of trepidation I touched his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t recoil, didn’t raise his head where I could see his eyes deep in the shadows of his hoodie cowl.   With his legs stretched or his head bent and propped in his hand, he had been there every morning since the night temperatures reached down into the small numbers.   The coffee shop had to feel like a morning oasis if his nighttime was spent outdoors. Since he didn’t move, I looked more closely.   I wanted to be sure his chest was rising and falling or wanted to see a twitch of his fingers.   His tall fur-lined boots sat next to his chair.   He always chose the seat near the corner – out of sight of the cashier.   Two backpacks were tucked close, one under his leg and the other touched by his left hand dangling down.   A paper cup with a plastic lid and the Roasterie logo sat on the floor but well within reach.   For more time than manners would allow, I sta...

We mailed about a hundred Christmas Cards by the old method this week.  There may come a year when cost and time conspire to end that habit.  However, while postings have been extremely sparse this year, this posting is in keeping with the tradition started a couple of years ago.  It is one story - one reflection - this season brings forward.  Merry Christmas and good wishes to all who may happen by this blog!         the cornerstone About a year ago, standing atop the muddy Walls, I tried to visualize the foundation.   We would build a new house here.   We’d Build it to last.   We hope it sees a century of Christmases for us and those who come after. Looking down, ten feet deep in the mucky wall An oblong object, not root nor rock, jutted out. Sliding into the hole, caking mud on my jeans,   I slogged to the corner and knelt to touch it. An iron stake, rusty and scaly, with a skewe...