PeterHogenkampWrites

It's Father's Day and, as usual, that means I think about my late father, and wish he was still with me. So, this year, I have decided to put my thoughts to words and publish them in my blog, if for no other reason than writing about him is the best way for me to spend some time with him, and I would give anything in the world to do that. My father was a deliberate and methodical person; when he used a particular word in a certain circumstance, it was because he had thought about the context, mulled over the way the word sounded, and considered the possible interpretations of the word by his audience before uttering it. (No, he was not given over to quick responses.) And if he couldn't think of the exact word he wanted, he would ruminate about it until the perfect word became clear in his head. If rumination didn't work, he even stooped to research--his favorite book was Webster's Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language (you know, that massive thing you see in...

My Co-Pilot It's Sunday afternoon and my mother and I on the road again; in this case, a snow covered secondary road paralleling a small river that meanders it's way into the White River and then the might Connecticut. But there's nothing mighty about this stretch of water, which isn't to say it isn't pretty. Because it is pretty, my mom says so, and when you are 94 years of age, you know a pretty sight when you see one. We're stopped in the middle of the road--which isn't a problem because we haven't seen another car in a half-hour--searching the open water for the nose of a beaver breaking the surface. We don't see any live beavers, and though it would have been nice, it really doesn't matter. We're here to enjoy each other's company, not watch aquatic mammals, so the day is a success anyway. We move on, winding our way back and forth up a steep road flanked by snow-covered pines, and then down a hill leading to a frozen lake dotted wit...