Not my first rain post, nor my last–summer wonders are far more than happy people in the warm sun, pretty girls in bikinis, convertibles, surf boards, sailing boats etc. Sometimes it rains, and when it rains one has a choice, if lucky, to run for cover or embrace the gift of it. All the best mornings in my memories are rainy mornings when good fun is wrung from a disappointing beginning.
Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.View Archive →