First day of fall on the Little Niangua River.
Erifnus turned 16 this year. Now she can drive all by herself. So I can take a nap tomorrow as we motor to an early morning casting call on the Little Niangua River.
We passed a sign that pointed to a Cemetary [sic]. Imagine any English teacher buried there, eternally damned to lie under a misspelled word. Then again, maybe the sign was painted by one of her students, in which case she shares some of the blame.
Sunday evening. Pedaling my Schwinn Continental through downtown Columbia, I noticed something unusual, so I stopped to watch. Hundreds of tuxedos and gowns bedecking a bizarre bunch of freakers, wild daglo hairdos and stunning face jewelry. Twentysomethings and thirtysomethings, most appearing kinda stiff in formal wear, but every one had a game face. “Wedding?” I asked one tux. “Nope, the …
The days were getting warmer when I got a call from a good friend alerting me that an adventurous soul was about to experience the dream of every American river rat. He’d built a raft, and was looking for crew members to help him drift from St. Paul to the Gulf of Mexico. Holy Huck! I’m in!