I’ve been thinking about something lately— It’s what I call The Geezer’s Paradox, and it hit me the other morning when I bent down to tie my shoe and realized I had accidentally entered a different geological era. I don’t know how long I was down there. Long enough for the coffee to cool. Long enough for the dog to file a missing person report. Long enough for my wife to ask, “Are you reorganizing the floor?” That’s the paradox right there. A geezer can get down. A geezer can get up. But a geezer cannot do both in the same hour without notifying someone. And the older I get, the more my body behaves like a committee that was formed without my knowledge. My joints have bylaws. My back has a mission statement. My left ankle has been on sabbatical since 2019 and sends postcards from time to time. I used to wake up ready to go. Now I wake up and have to negotiate with myself like I’m trying to pass a bill through Congress. “Alright, knees, if you’ll agree to bend, the back promises not to seize, and the shoulders will stop making that noise that sounds like a squirrel trapped in a vending machine.” And the knees say, “We’ll get back to you after breakfast.” But the paradox goes deeper. It’s not just the body. It’s the mind. I have more wisdom now than I’ve ever had. I also have less access to it. My brain is like a library where all the books are there, but the librarian is on break and the lights are off. I’ll walk into a room with purpose, determination, and a sense of destiny… and then stand there staring at the wall waiting for it to give me a hint. And the worst part is, I know I knew what I came in for. I can feel the knowledge hovering nearby, like a mosquito that refuses to land. That’s the Geezer’s Paradox: I know more than I’ve ever known, but I can’t remember any of it at the moment I need it.

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.