Was I ever any good? I suck at this. No, seriously, I totally suck at this writing on Medium thing. I kinda had a good run during Covid, but my juices have slowed to molasses in a cold jar. I see the Medium icon on my iPad each morning and feel a tinge of dread; well, not exactly dread, maybe guilt? Four or five of you (ok, three or four) liked some of my stories. Hell, I enjoyed writing them! That was then.

Tick Tock, the clock never stops. — I curse the wheel for its very existence, I gaze at the wheel in awe. Not sure if I fit here; I seem out of place, don’t have any answers at all. I am small, inconsequential; why ask me why, the wheel will turn without me. I can stay in…

How not to name a child. — Whye Waite is my pseudonym. He has several personalities. In this story, he has a bit of a southern U.S. accent. Folks ask me all the time how I got my cockamamie name. Ya’ see, Whye Waite isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill, middle-of-the-road, common-as-dirt-all-American name. …

Do dreams come true? — It’s 1984, the year of our first wedding anniversary. We are off to sunny Mexico. I’m all of twenty-seven, full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the world. Laura is a mere twenty-two, strong, happy, fun-loving, and incredibly beautiful. The world is our oyster, lying in wait like…

Bring it on. — Pressure, I feel it. Not the pressure of a slow-developing sinus infection. Not gripping, vise-like pressure of a heart attack. God forbid. Nor like a headache, or donning a pair of last year’s jeans. Nope. A different type of pressure. Pressure to perform? Nope. (Well, even though King Arthur doesn’t quite stand at full attention as he once proudly did. Prostate surgery will do that to you)

The unflappable Harry Hogg vs. the upstart Whye Waite As written in the Missouri Republican Gazzette Ladies and gentlemen, please gather round to hear the tall tale of all tales. Saunter up to the bar with your favorite beverage and witness the telling of this region’s most extraordinary golf match, a most impressive event indeed. The gauntlet was hastily…

Life’s final breath — My dying mother’s life was like a song. The song’s beginning is about manners. Rest ye little one, think of what you’ve done. The world lies before you, child; remember, you are young. Say thank you, and please — be polite. Pleasant dreams will reward you, whilst you sleep at…

Have you ever found your dinghy? — Late last night, after rowing our ten-foot inflatable dinghy two-hundred yards through the surf and boisterous bay of Yelapa, Mexico, we finally arrived at Tally Ho, our moored Nauticat 43 sailboat. …

The one that didn’t get away — The night’s breeze combed the hair from my forehead, tickling its way into the sails, pushing Tally Ho methodically through unseen waves. The inky darkness rendered a calmness over Amber and me, having spent many nights at sea on our forty-three-foot sailboat. …