He sang all the time. “Amazing Grace.” “Victory in Jesus.” “Cowboy Joe,” (the University of Wyoming fight song)…

      “He’s a high-falootin’ rootin’ tootin/ Son of a gun from old Wyoming/ Ragtime cowboy (talk about your cowboy)….”

Songs lived in his head and danced on his lips.

Every day I walk. It’s the best exercise there is (say those who are supposedly in the know.) But I don’t walk for the physical benefits, I walk for my brain. When my body moves, my mind wanders.  And the striding conjures up all kinds of things. It summons questions that don’t have clear cut answers… sentences that hold their own alone but are looking for companions… titles of chapters, books, and blogs whose insides haven’t yet congealed. Floating around freely inside my head, words somehow find their sea legs in conjunction with one another while my body moves.

My writing practice is a pact I made with myself. I sit down and string words together every day-- not because anyone told me to or expects me to or would be bent out of shape if I didn’t-- but because I decided I would do it. No wages would be withheld if I didn’t (because it’s not a job and I’m not getting paid.) The world wouldn’t come to a screeching halt if I skipped a week (because most people don’t even know “A Weigh of Life” exists and thus wouldn’t miss it if it were gone.) You know what would happen if I didn’t post a blog every Tuesday morning at 10:00 a.m.? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Hardly anyone would even notice—maybe not even family or close friends.

Last week, the Savannah Bananas came to town.  In case you’re not familiar, they’re the traveling baseball circus that has since 2016 turned America’s favorite pastime upside down. For $25, patrons attending Banana games receive a ticket for two hours of dancing, singing, acrobatics-- and baseball—plus all the food and drink they care to consume. The Bananas’ organization has one goal: make baseball fun. Their home games have a waitlist 60,000 people long.