Jim Whitehouse

Every spring when I plant tomatoes in our garden, I anticipate eating one of those sun warmed beauties picked right off the plant and scoffing at the memory of the rock-hard flavorless store-bought fruits of winter.

A couple of weeks ago, I invited some friends over for a spur-of-the moment bonfire gathering around our firepit.

“We could use the Victorio Strainer machine,” I say to my beloved wife Marsha as we stand looking at a huge bag of apples.

You cut the apples into quarters, heat them up to soften them a bit.

“What’s your favorite season of the year?” I ask my pal Snooker.

What’s all the lumber for?” asks my son T.J. \n\n“Two new rocking chairs for the front porch,” I said, looking down at the pile of oak boards outside my shop.

or many years a little band of friends met every workday morning for coffee and toast at a local coffee shop.

by Jim Whitehouse Something just occurred to me. Back in my youth, I was on a track team. I was a shot putter. I put the shot. I practiced putting the shot. Later, I took up golf, which swallowed m…

“So what happened then?” I ask Hilly, who’s been telling a story about painting a huge old house one summer when he was in college.

So what happened then?” I ask Hilly, who’s been telling a story about painting a huge old house one summer when he was in college.