The days are getting longer, and I’m making the most of them.
I prepare breakfasts of cereal, eggs and smoothies. Read the newspapers piled on my bookshelf. Jog around my neighborhood.
I make ice cream sundaes in the afternoon. Listen to podcasts about presidents, politics and hockey. Call my folks on the way to work, which now starts at 3 p.m.
I’m starting to recognize the people of my commute. There’s the woman smoking her e-cigarette near the parking garage, though I haven’t seen her in a while, and the man walking with his hood up as we occasionally pass one another. One guy sometimes smokes and reads a paperback on a ledge outside his apartment.
My alarm is set early on weekends, which I’ve mostly spent snowboarding, save the time my parents came to town. I’m a bit of a lousy tour guide.
We visited family in central Oregon, driving there in the dark and stopping on the way back for a high-desert hike. The clouds and rain set in when we neared Portland, and they didn’t see Mount Hood the whole trip — their first to the Northwest.
Flowers are budding on my block, and I walked past a patch of flowers in full bloom yesterday. Punxsutawney Phil might be right.
One roommate moved out and another moved in. I’m happy to be staying put.
Salt spray stung her skin. The wind whipped her bare legs. Her cheek rested on his sweatshirt as he cradled her against his chest.
Phoebe’s dad held her out over the guardrail, six stories above the black waves.
And let go.
— The Tampa Bay Times, on Phoebe Jonchuck, 5, who died when her father dropped her from a bridge
You could write that, if you wanted. Maybe somebody will. But whoever read the script would say, come on. This is a little over the top, right?
— The Toronto Star, on NHL all-star game MVP John Scott
North Deadwood Creek, the site where Wiens shot his first barred owl last October, is an iconic old-growth forest of fir, hemlock, and cedar, thick with sword ferns and salal, moss and mist.
— California Sunday, on a program that kills one species of owl to save another
Then she heard a faint response, coming from a 50-foot deep crevasse.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Are you OK?”
— The Statesman Journal, on a women who lost her husband in a climbing accident
Imagine the worst thing that can happen to a parent.
Far worse befell Sue Klebold.
— The Washington Post, on the mother of Columbine shooter Dylan Klebold
Into the second day of questioning, Johnson’s story fell apart. He admitted that it was all a lie: There was no shooter. There was no danger. He had shot at his own cruiser, radioed in the phony call. He made the whole thing up.
— The Boston Globe, on a small-town cop who faked a shooting
A few weeks earlier, the male elders of their caste had decreed that village women working at nearby meat-processing factories should leave their jobs. The reason they gave was that women at home would be better protected from the sexual advances of outside men. A bigger issue lay beneath the surface: The women’s earnings had begun to undermine the old order.
— The New York Times, on women in India fighting for the right to work
“In the 1910s, the Arts and Crafts movement had revolutionized architecture,” Chris says, neck craned, cane aloft, pedestrians sidestepping him and looking at their phones. “Look at the spandrels, the lines of trim! It’s really an intelligently designed building.”
It is, if you bother to look up.
— The Washington Post, on a poet and his Polaroids
Yet it works somehow: the warm lighting, the overflowing shelves, this general sense of bookiness. The guesthouse is a comfortable and inviting place. It welcomes you, as does the city. You feel an almost maternal embrace here, a flood of childhood memories.
— California Sunday, on Paju Bookcity, South Korea
As always, thanks for reading.