seven

I’m thinking that I’m not writing enough – and I’m a writer – because I’m talking too much.

Which may be ancient news. Either way, I’m planning to turn the tables on it.

Speaking of tables, the Cushman family kitchen table – in our kitchen when I was just a youngster cruising the playgrounds and backyards of Wareham close by Cape Cod – that table has been taking up sacred space in my pal Joyce’s garage in Portland, OR long, long, long. I’m not quite sure how to turn the table on that, there are math and dolares involved, but it’s a wonder.

Put on the skillet, slip on the lead, I don’t get to eat no shortnin’ bread.