which is a generous description, as it's not more than a stoop. We are the wild and woolly yard - the neighbors make us look bad with their aggressive mowing schedule. But, I'm the one who sees critters in the early mornings and that makes it worth it. The Pollening is mostly over. We're in the 80s this week and it'll be 90 by May Day, I predict. Not much in dandelions this year and I have yet to see the rabbit. But the redbirds - my daddy and his new wife, who are much better suited - are out and about. The moss in the windows survived the winter. No earth-shattering revelations here today. Just a green world and sunshine and glad to be here with y'all.

You ever notice how every household has its own theology, but none more sacred than Q‑tip etiquette.I grew up thinking I was a decent human being — kind, polite, paid my taxes, returned my shopping cart — only to discover, in adulthood, that I have apparently been using Q‑tips like a feral raccoon. Nobody tells you the rules. They just wait until you’re married, or visiting someone’s house, or staying in a guest bathroom, and suddenly you’re confronted with a jar of Q‑tips arranged like they’re auditioning for the Rockettes. And you think, “Oh no. I’m about to embarrass my entire lineage.” Bathrooms are where we pretend we’re better people than we are. We put out the fancy towels nobody’s allowed to touch. We light a candle that smells like “Crisp Alpine Morning,” even though we live in Indiana and the closest thing to an alpine morning is when the Kroger freezer section malfunctions. But the Q‑tip jar — that’s the real test.Because the moment you reach in, you realize: There is a correct number of Q‑tips you’re supposed to take, and you don’t know what that number is. Take one? You look like you’re rationing cotton in the Great Depression. Take two? You look like you’re about to perform a delicate surgical procedure on a hummingbird. Take three? Now you’re just showing off. Every box of Q‑tips has that warning: “Do not insert into ear canal.”Which is adorable, because that is the ONLY reason any of us buy them. That’s like selling donuts with a label that says, “Do not enjoy emotionally.” Or selling a recliner that says, “Do not fall asleep during the third quarter.” We all know the truth: The ear canal is the forbidden fruit.The Garden of Eden was not about apples — it was about a man, a woman, and a cotton swab, and God saying, “Don’t put that in there,” and Adam saying, “But it feels so good.” Everybody has their own Q‑tip technique, and nobody teaches it. It’s like a martial art passed down through awkward observation. There’s the Gentle Painter, who treats the ear like a fragile antique vase.There’s the Coal Miner, who goes in like he’s trying to strike oil.There’s the Windshield Wiper, who rotates like he’s buffing a classic car.And then there’s the Philosopher, who pauses mid‑swab to reflect on life choices.

Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A snack? A story? A joke? Have a seat — any place is fine. Take a breath. Let the day ease up a little. I keep this porch for steady light, honest stories, and a bit of rest for whoever needs it. I’m not here to fix anything or anybody. I’m here to sit with you, to listen, to laugh when it sneaks up on us, and to let hope rise slow and warm between us. I tend to move at the speed of real life. Some days that’s quick, most days it’s not. However you arrived — tired, curious, carrying something old or something new — I’m glad you’re here. When you’re ready, and there’s no hurry, tell me what brought you to the porch today.

I had amnesia once — or twice. I can’t remember which, which I feel like is how you know it was the real deal. If you can’t remember whether you forgot something, that’s advanced forgetting. That’s forgetting with a graduate degree. People talk about amnesia like it’s this dramatic movie moment — you wake up in a hospital bed, there’s a mysterious stranger holding your hand, and you whisper, “Who… am… I?” No. Real-life forgetting is you walking into the kitchen and standing there like you’ve just been teleported by aliens. You’re holding a spoon, the refrigerator is open, and you’re thinking, “Was I… cooking? Eating? Or was I just admiring the condiments?” My amnesia — whichever one it was — didn’t come with a soundtrack. Nobody rushed in with a clipboard. I just realized one day that I had forgotten something important, and then I forgot what the important thing was. That’s when you know you’re in trouble. When you can’t even remember what you’re supposed to be remembering, that’s like losing a bookmark in a book you weren’t reading. And people love to help. They say things like, “Retrace your steps.” Oh, sure. Let me just walk back through the last 48 hours of my life like I’m a detective in a crime show. “At 3:17 p.m., the suspect — me — opened a bag of chips. At 3:18, he regretted it. At 3:19, he forgot why he walked into the room.” Case closed. The worst part is when someone asks, “Well, what were you doing right before you forgot?” I don’t know. That’s the whole point. That’s like asking a goldfish to describe its childhood. And then there’s the moment — you know the one — when the memory finally comes back. It hits you like a squirrel jumping out of a trash can. You’re just minding your business, and suddenly: “OH! THAT’S WHAT I WAS DOING!” And it’s never something noble. It’s never, “I was solving world hunger.” It’s always, “I was looking for my glasses… which are on my face.” But here’s the thing: forgetting isn’t always bad. Sometimes forgetting is a gift. Sometimes your brain looks at the day you just had and says, “Nope. We’re not keeping that. We’re doing you a favor.” That’s mercy disguised as memory loss.

I’ve always wondered how there can be self‑help groups. The whole idea seems to cancel itself out before the meeting even starts. If it’s self‑help, you’re supposed to help yourself. If it’s a group, you’re helpin’ each other. At some point, the sign on the door ought to pick a lane. You walk in expectin’ to find people quietly workin’ on themselves, and instead you find a circle of chairs and a man with a clipboard sayin’, “Let’s all help ourselves… together.” And everybody nods like that makes perfect sense. It’s a funny arrangement when you think about it. You’ve got a room full of people who all came because they weren’t sure what to do next, and the plan is to have them advise each other. It’s like askin’ a group of lost hikers to form a committee. They’ll have a lovely discussion, but nobody’s gettin’ off that mountain. And the thing is, nobody questions it. They sit in that circle, takin’ turns, offerin’ wisdom they found in a book they haven’t finished readin’. One person says, “I’m learnin’ to trust my inner voice,” and the next person says, “Well, my inner voice told me to buy a jet ski, so I’m not sure mine’s qualified.” But that’s the beauty of it — everybody’s confused in the same direction. It’s a shared uncertainty. A community of people who all admit, “I don’t know what I’m doin’, but I’m doin’ it with conviction.” And maybe that’s why the groups work. Not because anybody has the answers, but because nobody’s pretendin’ they do. It’s a rare thing to sit in a room where everyone’s honest about bein’ a work in progress. Still, I can’t help but smile at the name. Self‑help group. It’s like holdin’ a potluck where everybody brings their own lunch.