Opinion

Items of the Sixth Sense

Item: The wooden rocking chair in my living room rocks more and more these days.  But there’s no ghost sitting in it.  It’s my wife’s male cat, whom I call Stirfry, resting a paw on the right back runner.  I think he’s discovered that he can move what is to him a large object with just a gentle push, the chair is so well balanced.  It used to be, when he was a teen cat, he sometimes fought behind that chair with his sister; ears back, tails twitching, they rose up and jumped

The Papa Files by Vincent Cardegin

The next day we toured the falls and spent another night there.  We didn’t see Thoris at all.  The following morning she came back while we were getting ready to leave.  We made kissy sounds, and I ‘mer-owed’ and even ‘m’owed’ to get her to come into the camper so we could grab her, but she remained aloof, always sniffing the air.  After pushing the pullout beds in and cranking down the top of the camper, I tried to get her to come back in the car.  She would not.  I chased after her, but she was faster than I’d ever seen her run.  I now think she pulled

No More Capitalism!

On a trip to Cambridge England before the Covid-19 breakout, I saw young university students carrying signs that read “No More Capitalism!”  At the time I chalked it up to the zeal of youth looking for something to do on a slow Saturday afternoon.  However, what started out as placards and protests is now seeping into mainstream thought as we more frequently hear about “rethinking capitalism” or “the next stage of capitalism.”  

Canine Accostations

Both my kids have pests—I mean pets.  One has four dogs, two old and small, and two new and tall.  The other has two dogs, one as big as a Shetland pony that doesn’t know when it’s pooping, the other not much bigger than a gopher and barks all the time when I’m there, and three cats, one afraid of everything, one sometimes curious, and an elderly feline, a rescue, that I recognize as an old soul that needs some nip every day.

Don’t Move!

  I remember dropping a glass on the kitchen floor circa 1964 and reaching down to pick up the broken pieces.  Dad was off doing military things, and mom was working at a nursery.  I don’t know where my sister and brother were—probably ignoring the sound of something shattering.  It was either a weekend or a day of summer vacation, but it was late afternoon and I was getting a drink of water after watching something on TV in the small room Dad called the den.  I watched a lot of late-night monster movies there.  I now have a vague recollection of some PBS

Truth is not the goal

Gone are the days of journalistic integrity and honesty.  Truth is no longer considered the most important goal by national media. What they report is what they wish the story to be or the story that will lead to the change they would like to see in the world. Stories are promoted or hidden depending on how they will affect politics.