Richard L. Fricks

01/23/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

Here’s my bike, a Rockhopper by Specialized. I purchased it November 2021 from Venture Out in Guntersville; Mike is top notch! So is the bike, and the ‘old’ man seat I salvaged from an old Walmart bike.

Here’s a link to today’s bike ride. It’s what I call my pistol route, which is my goal every day. But, sometimes cold weather says otherwise.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: The Second Deadly Sin, by Lawrence Sanders

Sanders was a tremendously talented writer.

Amazon abstract:

A police detective must find out who murdered a world-famous artist in a thriller by the #1 New York Times–bestselling “master of suspense” (The Washington Post).

A month ago, world-renowned artist Victor Maitland was found dead in his Mott Street studio—stabbed repeatedly in the back. With no clear leads or suspects, the New York Police Department calls Chief Edward Delaney out of retirement. Delaney is still adjusting to life on the outside, and he’s bored by his free time. He welcomes the chance to put his well-honed investigative skills to the test once again. To investigate the case, Delaney plunges into Maitland’s rarefied orbit. Following a winding path of avarice, deception, and fraud, Delaney uncovers a long line of suspects that includes Maitland’s wife, son, and mistress. When a second murder rocks Manhattan’s art world, Delaney moves closer to the truth about what kind of a man—or monster—Victor Maitland really was. But which of the artist’s enemies was capable of killing him and leaving no trail?

My lingering guilt

It was December the 12th, last year. I was on my bike, riding Son Johnson Road, and this beautiful pup approached the blacktop from a fenced in pond to my right. I made a clicking sound, just to say hi. That’s all it took. The needy creature followed me almost a mile running along beside me at times until three dogs came running from a house and turned the skinny pup away. I continued.

Thoughts of the exposed-ribbed dog haunted me during the night and the next day. I returned to Son Johnson Road via car carrying an aluminum pie-pan and quart of dog food. Luckily I found him. He looked worse than the day before. From his looks, he was on the verge of starving. I made pictures, petted him, and shared loving thoughts as dog-lovers do. To my eternal regret, I left the precious pup, thinking ‘we don’t need another dog’ (I’d rescued Eddie, the black tornado, this past May, and there was Shadow, the graying ‘Heinz’ our oldest son had rescued in 2014). I returned home rationalizing, stupidly, “hopefully, somebody along this rode will take him in.”

I never saw the sad-eyed pup again. For two weeks, I returned via car with a quart or more of dog food hoping by chance I’d once again see this gorgeous creature. If I was so lucky, I would never leave him again. I’d carry him home and love and care for him like I/we do Eddie (and of course, Shadow). These trips were in addition to an almost-daily bike ride inclusive of Son Johnson Road.

After I stopped the daily trips via car, I opted to carry a pint of dog food on my bike. I continue to do that to this day.

I’ve spent a lot of time wishing I could go back and change what happened. I often brood over my failure to act when I had the perfect opportunity to relieve that precious being’s suffering. My thoughts have more than once contemplated what pain I could have stopped.

If I done what I should, he would now have a good home, with plenty of food, two playful canine friends, almost smothery attention from me, and hopefully many years of joy and happiness.

Now, all I can do is keep looking, and keep saying, “I’m sorry I let you down.”

01/22/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

Here’s a link to today’s bike ride. It’s what I call my pistol route, which is my goal every day. But, sometimes cold weather says otherwisee.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: Essays After Eighty by Donald Hall

Amazon abstract

The former US Poet Laureate contemplates life, death, and the view from his window in these “alternately lyrical and laugh-out-loud funny” essays (New York Times).

His entire life, Donald Hall dedicated himself to the written word, putting together a storied career as a poet, essayist, and memoirist. Here, in the “unknown, unanticipated galaxy” of very old age, his essays startle, move, and delight.

In Essays After Eighty, Hall ruminates on his past: “thirty was terrifying, forty I never noticed because I was drunk, fifty was best with a total change of life, sixty extended the bliss of fifty . . .” He also addresses his present: “When I turned eighty and rubbed testosterone on my chest, my beard roared like a lion and gained four inches.”

Most memorably, Hall writes about his enduring love affair with his ancestral Eagle Pond Farm and with the writing life that sustains him every day: “Yesterday my first nap was at 9:30 a.m., but when I awoke I wrote again.”

“Alluring, inspirational hominess . . . Essays After Eighty is a treasure . . . balancing frankness about losses with humor and gratitude.”—Washington Post

“A fine book of remembering all sorts of things past, Essays After Eighty is to be treasured.”—Boston Globe

Achieving Perspective: Trailblazing Astronomer Maria Mitchell and the Poetry of the Cosmic Perspective

Here’s the link to this article.

“Mingle the starlight with your lives, and you won’t be fretted by trifles.”

BY MARIA POPOVA

This is the third of nine installments in the animated interlude season of The Universe in Verse in collaboration with On Being, celebrating the wonder of reality through stories of science winged with poetry. See the rest here.

THE ANIMATED UNIVERSE IN VERSE: CHAPTER THREE

To be human is to live suspended between the scale of glow-worms and the scale of galaxies, to live with our creaturely limitations without being doomed by them — we have, after all, transcended them to unravel the molecular mystery of the double helix and compose the Benedictus and land a mechanical prosthesis of our curiosity on Mars. We have dreamt these things possible, then made them real — proof that we are a species of limitless imagination along the forward vector of our dreams. But we are also a species continually blinkered — sometimes touchingly, sometimes tragically — by our own delusions about the totality around us. Our greatest limitation is not that of imagination but that of perspective — our lens is too easily contracted by the fleeting urgencies of the present, too easily blurred by the hopes and fears of our human lives.

Two centuries ago, Maria Mitchell — a key figure in Figuring — understood this with uncommon poetry of perspective.Portrait of Maria Mitchell, 1840s. (Maria Mitchell Museum. Photograph: Maria Popova)

America’s first professional female astronomer, she was also the first woman employed by the federal government for a “specialized non-domestic skill.” After discovering her famous comet, she was hired as “computer of Venus,” performing complex mathematical calculations to help sailors navigate the globe — a one-woman global positioning system a century and a half before Einstein’s theory of relativity made GPS possible.

When Maria Mitchell began teaching at Vassar College as the only woman on the faculty, the college handbook mandated that neither she nor her female students were allowed outside after nightfall — a somewhat problematic dictum, given she was hired to teach astronomy. She overturned the handbook and overwrote the curriculum, creating the country’s most ambitious science syllabus, soon copied by other universities — including the all-male Harvard, which had long dropped its higher mathematics requirement past the freshman year.

Maria Mitchell’s students went on to become the world’s first class with academic training in what we now call astrophysics. They happened to all be women.

Maria Mitchell, standing at telescope, with her students at Vassar

Science was one of Maria Mitchell’s two great passions. The other was poetry.

At her regular “dome parties” inside the Vassar College Observatory, which was also her home, students and occasional esteemed guests — Julia Ward Howe among them — gathered to play a game of writing extemporaneous verses about astronomy on scraps of used paper: sonnets to the stars, composed on the back of class notes and calculations.

Mitchell taught astronomy until the very end of her long life, when she confided in one of her students that she would rather have written a great poem than discovered a great comet. But scientific discovery is what gave her the visibility to blaze the way for women in science and enchant generations of lay people the poetry of the cosmic perspective.

It was this living example that became Maria Mitchell’s great poem, composed in the language of being — as any life of passion and purpose ultimately becomes.

“Mingle the starlight with your lives,” she often told her students, “and you won’t be fretted by trifles.”

And yet here we are, our transient lives constantly fretted by trifles as we live them out in the sliver of spacetime allotted us by chance.

A century after Maria Mitchell returned her borrowed stardust to the universe that made it, the poet Pattiann Rogers extended a kindred invitation to perspective, untrifling the tender moments that make a life worth living.

Published in her collection Firekeeper (public library), it is read for us here by the ever-optimistic David Byrne, with original art by his ever-perspectival longtime collaborator Maira Kalman and original music by the symphonic-spirited Jherek Bischoff.

ACHIEVING PERSPECTIVE
by Pattiann Rogers

Straight up away from this road,
Away from the fitted particles of frost
Coating the hull of each chick pea,
And the stiff archer bug making its way
In the morning dark, toe hair by toe hair,
Up the stem of the trillium,
Straight up through the sky above this road right now,
The galaxies of the Cygnus A cluster
Are colliding with each other in a massive swarm
Of interpenetrating and exploding catastrophes.
I try to remember that.

And even in the gold and purple pretense
Of evening, I make myself remember
That it would take 40,000 years full of gathering
Into leaf and dropping, full of pulp splitting
And the hard wrinkling of seed, of the rising up
Of wood fibers and the disintegration of forests,
Of this lake disappearing completely in the bodies
Of toad slush and duckweed rock,
40,000 years and the fastest thing we own,
To reach the one star nearest to us.

And when you speak to me like this,
I try to remember that the wood and cement walls
Of this room are being swept away now,
Molecule by molecule, in a slow and steady wind,
And nothing at all separates our bodies
From the vast emptiness expanding, and I know
We are sitting in our chairs
Discoursing in the middle of the blackness of space.
And when you look at me
I try to recall that at this moment
Somewhere millions of miles beyond the dimness
Of the sun, the comet Biela, speeding
In its rocks and ices, is just beginning to enter
The widest arc of its elliptical turn.

Previously on The Universe in Verse: Chapter 1 (the evolution of flowers and the birth of ecology, with Emily Dickinson); Chapter 2 (Henrietta Leavitt, Edwin Hubble, and the age of space telescopes, with Tracy K. Smith).

Drafting–Pittsburgh>King of Prussia—Molly

The driver kept pointing to his watch-less wrist as Molly, Tracey, and Millie filed onto the bus. “Thirty more seconds and you’d be walking.” The gruff older man with graying hair and beard announced at 6:01 AM according to the digital clock above the door at the rear of the bus. Without response, they’d walked the aisle and returned to their seats.

After returning to the bus station, the three had gone to the Ladies room. Millie had closed herself in a private stall and lingered. And, lingered. She’d taken another Depakote and hoped for a bowel movement. Molly and Tracey had done their business and waited outside in the lobby. After five minutes Molly had returned and retrieved Millie after considerable prodding.

As the bus rolled forward, Molly and Millie exchanged seats, at the younger’s insistence. She wanted to continue talking to Tracey. For three reasons. She wasn’t sleepy nor did she want to listen to music. Second, it was Saturday and therefore too early to text with Alisha. Third, she was intrigued with what Tracey had said at breakfast. Something like, “I’m amazed and disappointed that schools don’t teach young people anything remotely related to mindfulness.”

Before Molly could think of a way to reignite her and Tracey’s conversation, Millie gently elbowed her arm and pointed to the half-page flyer the ticket clerk had given them in Toledo. “I’m impressed with Greyhound. They’re sticking to the schedule like glue. It looks like we should be in New York right around 7:30.”

Molly turned and looked at the digital clock. “That’s thirteen and a half hours. A lifetime.” One thing was certain, she had done everything she could to change her mother’s mind about fleeing to New York City. “Why not go to the DA and tell him the truth?” “Why not just move and get one of those restraining orders you’ve talked about?” “Why don’t we borrow one of Colton’s guns, go on a picnic, and kill the bastard?” Molly had only thought the latter idea and dared not say it aloud, although she was convinced she could pull the trigger.

“We’ll make it.” Millie said it because that’s what any good mother would say, though, right now, there was an energy inside her itching to explode. “Why don’t you listen to some music? Matt wants me to call him.” Millie removed her phone from her purse and dialed.

Molly kept staring across the aisle to a closed-eyed Tracey who had leaned her seat back and was clutching a small leather-looking journal in her hands. The bus hit a pot hole and Molly kept staring. Tracey’s pose didn’t change. So peaceful and content, not a worry in the world, Molly thought now noticing for the first time a beautiful necklace around Tracey’s neck. The beads looked like pearls except they were brown, maybe made from wood. At the end of the long thread-looking chain, was a lighter-colored tassel.

“If you’re mother doesn’t mind, come sit by me. We can continue our chat.” Tracey said, opening her eyes ever so slight. Molly was embarrassed, her face turning a pinkish red.

Millie was talking with Matt and looking away, through the window at a landscape of passing houses, what Molly figured were similar to theirs on S. Princeton Avenue. She unbuckled her seat belt and eased across the aisle and in front of Tracey who inclined her seat. “Thanks for inviting me.” Millie had always stressed good manners.

Molly followed Tracey’s lead in reclining her seat. Not knowing what to do, Molly sat and pondered. Finally, she decided Tracey wouldn’t have asked her over unless she was willing to talk. “I’m sorry for being so dumb and asking a stupid question.”

Tracey turned her head toward Molly and smiled. “You’re as far from dumb as Albert Einstein, and there’s no stupid questions. How else are we to learn?”

Molly, relieved, returned the smile. “Thanks, so, why are you so skinny?” The twelve year old was certainly uninhibited.

Tracey leaned her head back and snorted, “wow, I asked for that. You go girl.”

“If that’s too personal.”

Tracey interrupted. “No, I’m not anorexic. It’s my metabolism. I eat constantly but have trouble gaining weight.” Molly thought it would be great to be able to eat all she wanted but knew that wasn’t herself. During the second part of fourth grade and all of fifth she’d overeaten and become rather pudgy. She eventually learned it was a response to her mother letting Colton move in, and his subsequent abuse of the two of them. “Anyway, looks are not everything.”

Easy for her to say, Molly thought. In her eyes, Tracey was a beautiful woman. Silky Auburn hair, penetrating green eyes, a perfect oval face, and symmetrical lower and upper lips. Plus, to be so skinny, models would kill to have her height and body shape.

“You said you were headed home. To New York City. Where do you live?” Molly felt free to change the subject.

“At The Stratford. It’s an apartment house on the Upper East Side.” Tracey inclined her chair and opened her journal. “What about you guys?”

Molly hesitated and recalled her mother’s words, ‘we have to be careful who we talk to and what we say.’ “Well, uh, I’m not sure of the address. Somewhere in Manhattan and it’s a studio apartment, but we haven’t seen it yet.”

Tracey closed her journal without writing anything. “No problem.” She paused, and then asked, “do you know where you’ll be going to school?” Again, Molly paused, but this time told herself Tracey was safe, there was no way she was or could be connected to Colton, and now, glancing across the aisle, saw her mother was sleeping.

“It’s Robert Wagner, Robert Wagner Middle School. I’ve already been accepted and start January the 6th.”

“That’s a great school. Matter of fact, it’s only a ten minute walk from my apartment.” Tracey leaned forward and removed a large leather bag from beneath her seat. “Would you like a snack?” She removed two large red Delicious apples.

Molly smiled, still full from breakfast. “No, I’m good thanks.”

Tracey continued, “I’m trying to persuade Mr. Waldeck, the 6th grade principal, to let me teach a class. Meditation for Children is what I call it.”

Molly knew very little about meditation. “What would that do for the students?” That seemed like a logical question.

“Whether we are young or old, our minds are where we live, where we experience everything. My goal for my clients and likewise for the students is to show them how meditation can initiate moments of calm, bring about self-awareness, and to begin connecting their mind and body.”

“Oh,” is all Molly said.

Tracey laughed and took a bite of her apple. “Let me be clear, I’m not into religion or anything metaphysical. But, I am all in for learning more about how our minds work.”

Molly was a little confused. “What do you mean by megaphysical?”

“Metaphysical.” Sorry, I spoke with a mouth full. “As you know, physical refers to the natural world, metaphysical goes beyond that, beyond the physical world. It attempts to transcend the laws of nature, which, to me, makes it wholly abstract and overly theoretical. I think it’s pure woo-woo. But, get this, my brother’s position is 180 degrees the opposite.”

Molly pondered what she believed. Ever since her and her mother started attending St. Paul Missionary Baptist Church, she’d felt loved, appreciated, safe, but was troubled over what she heard from the teachers and pastor. Now, with Tracey’s definition, Molly concluded what St. Paul taught was, at a minimum, difficult to understand. Maybe it was woo-woo, but she wasn’t sure.

During the remainder of the ride to King of Prussia, Tracey responded to Molly’s question about her personal life: where she’d grown up, whether she had siblings, where she’d gone to school, whether she was married (or had been).

As the bus rolled to a stop, Molly felt encouraged by Tracey’s story, how someone could survive heartache and traumatic events, and still go on to live a satisfying and rewarding life.

Tracey had grown up in Harrison, Arkansas in a happy family of five: mother, father, brother, and a twin sister. The happiness evaporated when mother and sister were killed when the twins were twelve. What had made the tragedy even more tragic was the mother was killed in a head-on collision while she was driving home to meet the school bus delivering her daughters. Tracey’s sister had been killed thirty minutes later when she stepped into the path of an oncoming car. The tragedy had nearly destroyed Tracey, her brother, and her father. Two years later, the three had moved to New York City.

Tragedy again revisited their lives the night Tracey graduated from high school. Her father was shot and killed at a convenience store after attending the school ceremony.

Tracey, 33, and Aaron, 35, had stayed in New York City, graduated college but had taken opposite paths with their lives. Tracey had become a Zen master, and established a meditation center. Aaron had become a Southern Baptist preacher and founded Faith Haven Church. The siblings relationship had deteriorated over the years to the point they now rarely spoke. However, Tracey’s life, at least as it sounded to Molly, was rich and rewarding.

The bus driver’s gruff voice interrupted Molly’s thoughts. “Folks, just a reminder this is a quick stop. Keep your seats. No exiting. You’ll have a forty minute rest stop in Philadelphia, and that’s only fifty minutes away.”

Tracey stood and removed a bag from the overhead rack. “This is my stop.” She noticed Molly staring at her with a ‘deer in the headlights’ look. “I have a client here and will be taking the 5:30 bus. You take care.”

Molly was disappointed but didn’t want to seem rude. “Okay. It was nice to meet you.”

“Oh, here.” Tracey removed a card from her small bag. “This is my contact information. Feel free to call me anytime.” Tracey turned to leave and glanced at Millie, who was waving but talking on her phone.

01/21/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

Here’s a link to today’s bike ride. It’s what I call my pistol route, which is my goal every day. But, sometimes cold weather says otherwisee.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: The Second Deadly Sin, by Lawrence Sanders

Sanders was a tremendously talented writer.

Amazon abstract:

Drafting–Pittsburgh>King of Prussia—Molly (partial)

“If you’re mother doesn’t mind, come sit by me. We can continue our chat.” Tracey said, opening her eyes ever so slight. Molly was embarrassed, her face turning a pinkish red.

A few notes I made toward the end of today’s drafting

Did tracey lose a daughter, a sister (her twin?)?
Was necklace Tracey’s sister’s?

That death, triggered the eruption in her and her brother’s relationship.
He’d turned to God?
She’d turned to Zen?

01/20/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

I rode the complete pistol route today (11.8 miles). Unfortunately, I trouble with my biking APP– RidewithGPS–and cannot include a link.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: The First Deadly Sin, by Lawrence Sanders

Today, I completed this book. I rate it five stars. Tomorrow I plan on starting The Second Deadly Sin.

Sanders was a tremendously talented writer.

Amazon abstract:

The #1 New York Times–bestselling author introduces readers to “a great detective, a detective’s detective,” New York cop Edward X. Delaney (Kirkus Reviews).

New York Police Department Captain Edward Delaney is called to the scene of a brutal murder. A Brooklyn councilman was struck from behind, the back of his skull punctured and crushed with an unknown weapon. The victim wasn’t robbed, and there’s no known motive. The commissioner appoints Delaney to head up a clandestine task force, but soon this effort ignites an internecine war of departmental backstabbing. Distracted by the serious illness of his wife, Barbara, Delaney begins his secret investigation. Then the killer claims another victim—slain in the exact same way, leaving the strange puncture wound. As more young men are found murdered, Delaney starts putting the pieces together. Soon, he’s faced with a cop’s dilemma: He knows who the killer is, but the man is untouchable. That’s when Delaney lays a trap to bring a monster to justice . . .

Learn more–read this great review on Amazon by Pennydreadful

I feel I may have cheated when reading this book because I read it in gosh, too many years ago to count. However, Sanders’s Deadly Sin series were the first stories that put my heart to pounding and made me wish I could write. Recently, I wanted to see if that belief was still true, and darned if it isn’t.

Lawrence Sanders quite simply is a master. Of characterization, of research, of police procedure, of getting inside the characters’ (and readers’ heads). His set up might indeed be frowned upon today. He starts the book with several chapters surrounding the antagonist, and then we meet Captain Edward X. Delaney and several chapters pertain to him and the politics surrounding a police captain with a critically ill wife.

But a killer is on the streets of New York City, and soon Captain Delaney is torn. Torn between sitting by his wife’s bedside and putting a madman away. Naturally it’s not as simple as that because politics and a power struggle are afoot, and a new kind of police reorganization affects the department all the way to the mayors’ office.

Edward X Delaney’s wife takes a turn for the worse, and he tries to resign. A police commissioner persuades him to take a leave of absence. But in the midst of all the politics and turmoil affecting the police department, the commissioner convinces Delaney to work in secret and independently while using his years of detective experience to find the killer who is walking the streets of New York and murdering unsuspecting men with an ice ax.

To accomplish this private investigation, Captain Delaney must do much of the leg work and research himself. To do this he recruits civilians to aid him in this quest, including a bedridden mountain climber, a 70+ retired curator dying to be of assistance and the widow of one of Blank’s victims [Blank is the suspect]. Much of the case is done thanks to these people when the city is in a full-blown panic because of the new administrations’ blunders and inability to catch the killer.

Captain Delaney is called back to work. And with police resources given him, he makes every effort to stop a killer from killing again.

A masterpiece of writing.

Drafting–Colton speaks with his attorney, and Sandy

Colton pressed Accept on his iPhone and suppressed his dissatisfaction with the attorney who’d come highly recommended. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”

“It’s my golf day and I’m about at the first hole so I’ll be quick.” Colton visualized Cliff driving his cart, and could hear someone beside him talking, probably on a cell phone. “Hey, tried calling you several times last night.”

“Sorry. I was, well, out of range. Plus, my phone died.” He sat in his recliner, put his phone on Speaker, and grabbed his cigarettes and lighter. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll go first,” Cliff’s passenger announced.

“Court. Monday. 10:00 AM.”

“What the hell. You said my trial wouldn’t be for months.” Colton lite a Marlboro and took a deep pull.

“That’s right, this is about your bond. The DA refiled his motion and the new judge set a hearing. Just be there. Dress nice, and be on your best behavior.”

“Shit man. Shoot me straight. What’s going on? Am I about to go to jail?” Sweat popped out on Colton’s forehead. He remembered Cliff telling him Judge Stewart had to retire. Health reasons. And, to hope his replacement wasn’t some deranged pro-prosecution crusader.

“I hate to say it but the new judge, Judge Rhodes, will probably put you in jail until your trial, or increase the bond amount. Possibly to something you cannot afford.”

Colton lowered his foot rest, stood, and headed to the kitchen. He needed a beer. “Can’t you do something? Why is this happening? Why doesn’t Judge Stewart’s order still stand?” Four months ago, the DA had pulled this same stunt, filed a motion to revoke or modify Colton’s bail, and Judge Stewart had refused to set a hearing. Cliff had said then that given the seriousness of Colton’s crime, a majority of judges wouldn’t be so friendly.

“Listen, I got to go. Be at court early, say 9:30, and we can talk more. Have a good weekend.” The call ended. Colton downed half a bottle of Bud Light.

“Have a good weekend, my ass. That’s fucking easy for him to say.” After returning his half-emptied beer to the refrigerator Colton walked to his recliner and called Sandy. Still feeling the need to talk outloud to himself, he said, “shit, he’s in the same boat I’m in. The only difference is the names of our attorney’s.”

“What the hell are we going to do?” Sandy’s answer left no doubt he was also due in court Monday. “Where you been? I tried calling all night.” Sandy sounded desperate. Colton walked outside and stood on the front porch knowing his best friend believed he still had a tender reed of hope. Unfortunately, that was about to burn up like the morning fog.

“Sorry. I just heard. Cliff called and told me about the hearing.”

Before Colton could continue, Sandy blasted, “Millie’s going to be there. And tell them. Right? It’s time man.” For months he had blamed Colton for their predicament.

“Sit down and brace yourself. We’re in worse trouble than you think.”

“Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?” Sandy had always been pliable, almost like a puppet, especially for Colton.

He started to lie and tell Sandy the best thing they could do is wait until trial and surprise the DA with our alibi, but then decided that was bullshit. Plus, he needed Sandy to help execute the plan that was percolating in his head. “Millie’s gone, left yesterday. Don’t know where she is, but we have to find her.”

Again, Sandy jumped in. “And how the hell will we do that while sitting in jail?” A well-articulated question by the construction worker.

“Pack a bag and meet me at Mitchell’s in an hour. It’s time we go off the grid my friend. Millie’s out there and we’re going to find her.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” was all Sandy could say.

01/19/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

Here’s a link to today’s bike ride. The strong winds prevented me from riding my pistol route, which is my goal every day. But, sometimes cold weather (or high winds) says otherwise.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: The First Deadly Sin, by Lawrence Sanders

Sanders was a tremendously talented writer.