My helmet was scratched and marred from 15 years of riding. Still, as I tapped a knuckle twice on its top, it had a hollow thud, like tapping a melon in the market.

I don’t know where Jesse Kozechen spent his last night in Oregon, or where exactly in Brazil his trip began, but I know where his journey ended.

After seeing the beating of Rodney King, I never thought I see anything like the murder of George Floyd. Now, I know I’ll not live long enough to see an end to institutional racism in this country. Knowing that no longer shocks me, and knowing that leaves me sad and angry.

A week after getting hit by a truck, I took breakfast for the first time at the dining room table, joining Anne in a quasi-return to normalcy.

I saw the grill of his pickup bearing down on me and realized he could not stop; like prey the moment it knows it cannot elude predator, all I could do was wait.

In a few hours, the year will end, as will day three of my COVID-19 isolation.

We who gathered in darkness knew this would likely be our last chance, and losing sleep was worth it.

Twenty-three years ago today, our father drew his last breath. Having been there while he passed, I felt no need to attend his funeral. Four days ago, I saw his grave for the first time.

Several days after a sprinkling of lightning strikes pocked the landscape on either side of the border between California and Oregon, I was reminded that we can experience a version of hell.

My earliest fond memory of Oregon is gone.

“Everyone loves a good love story,” Anne said to me this morning, as we ate breakfast on our 15th wedding anniversary.

Lately, the egg has become my muse. I make Anne’s breakfast every morning, and eggs are a constant. Often one, with two on Saturday, and over polenta on Sunday. We’re into a routine.

At the beginning of the pandemic, I started keeping a daily record of my activities to make it easier for contact tracing, should I ever test positive for COVID-19. After a while, it just didn’t seem to matter.

I fell asleep last night surrounded by hazardous air. This morning, I can’t see the city I sometimes wish to forget. Still, I’m home. Two of my coworkers are not so lucky.

I sat above the sound of waves crashing on rocks before me, then walked into the surf to cleanse my legs and feet. Like after a baptism, I felt free.

Usually, when I see a crowd of people standing around in Grants Pass, my first thought is: “Nobody here is wearing a mask.” Tonight, my first thought was:” Many of these people are carrying semi-automatic weapons.”

Jory Markiss, 29, was voted the “Sexiest Cowboy” of the Professional Bull Riders tour in 2014. That was before a bull stepped twice on his head several years ago, requiring surgery to implant steel plates in his face.

What’s in a name? No, we’re not talking about the sweet smell of a rose, but rather something reminiscent of a stale cigar.

It's easy to overlook these cigar butts. Few would know that they were snuffed and laid down by three brothers drinking a 23-year-old vintage port--consumed far before its prime because they might not live long enough to appreciate its finest day—on the 19-year anniversary of their father’s death.

As my wife and daughter were shopping at the indoor farmers market at the Josephine County Fairgrounds, I wandered the area along the backstretch of the racetrack, discovering a fondness for the track I didn’t have before my father lost a bet.