Ocean

at the loft

Spring, 1966. I am packing. I am thirteen. I am leaving New York. Going back to Poland. My father’s stint at the UN is over. At thirteen, I ...

So what happened this year? I moved downtown in the fall. I have no car now. I walk or bike to and from work. Fantastic, right? Healthy! In...

Sunny, still cool, but sunny. I have three little cards saying that I am entitled to all sorts of bonuses at Banana Republic (BR). Time to c...

I do not create a bloggable life. Indeed, most days, like today, are outstanding in their blog-unworthiness. I got up. I dropped off car key...

No, no, I did not lose my life in the Kettle Moraine yesterday, Chuck (note comment to previous post). Though almost. A quiet day in the w...

I ask Ed, the guy I often do stuff with: what's that? What's what? These are trail maps, of course. Why? Why what? Why are you looki...

Yesterday at dusk, I was once again making the backroad run from Steve’s Liquor to Whole Foods and I noticed that I was moving along with a ...

Oh food... By the end of the day, I am ready for it. And on Wednesday, when I teach late in the day, I am ready for someone else to prepare ...

…that if, on March 28th, you stand in the middle of State Street at 6 pm and face the UW campus, you can see a perfectly centered sun, reced...

From a comment to the previous post, I learn that Bloomer, my week-end food stop on a trip up north, is not really regarded as northern Wisc...

He’s lived more than thirty years in Madison and has never poked around the northern parts of Wisconsin. My travel companion (what did I cal...

Two thousand taps hammered each year into trees. Tubes connecting to thick hose, carrying the whole clear mess to a tub in a hut, deep in th...