This is the third story in a series. The first introduces Janet's friend Brooke, and the second documents an evening of conversation between Janet and Brooke and others. Readers are welcome to start where they please, including here: Janet loved to tell the story of returning from a
We recently started a series of stories about the life and death of my dear friend Brooke Neal, and last month I shared a visit between Brooke and her dear friend Janet Schaefer, from late 2021. Shortly after that post, Janet’s husband Eric texted me that Janet was dying,
Janet Schaefer is one of the first friends I made after moving to Greensboro in 2020. Introduced by a mutual connection, she and her husband Eric opened up their home and lives to me. When I told Janet what neighborhood I’d moved into, she introduced me to Brooke via
Recently this back-and-forth came to me, the two lines of which read like a poem: How do we care for a dying generation? One person at a time, kind of. The generation is the Baby Boomers, the eldest of whom have reached their life expectancy. Herds of elephants in many
According to Granddad’s memoir, his own Granddad “cast a dark cloud over those around him,” and his home was accordingly cold. Granddad’s Dad had walked out when Granddad was barely old enough to remember, and he was raised by his mother and her parents in Oklahoma. He was
When I committed to sending a story on nine of each year’s full moons, rather than all twelve (some years 13), my body relaxed. This allows me to rest during winter! Alongside resting, I’ve been churning out the current season of Oregano Shirt Podcast, “Bro Connections,” with each
While mushroom hunting with friends in the Berkeley Hills, I got a call from my neighbor Misha. Her father, whom I had met briefly at his epic homestead on the California Coast, needed to sell a house he owned in Mexico, and the related taxes were significant enough that attempting
For the last six months, I’ve worked for a Skilled Nursing Facility, managing medications and miscellaneous other tasks for sixteen residents at a time. It’s not unusual for a single resident to demand constant attention. I can think of six residents who would appreciate all-day accompaniment, some of
I met John Perry Barlow in 2015 when he moved into the backyard bungalow behind the house where I lived in Palo Alto. My landlord Rob, a die-hard deadhead, had offered the Grateful Dead lyricist a 1992-era rent rate, and John Perry was glad to accept. At the time, he
Folks who saw this project’s first post saw that my commitment to share a story on nine of each year’s full moons would leave three (sometimes four) full moons per year with no story. This is for grace, margin, and whimsy, leaving room for something else, like this,
During my first year at Stanford, I didn’t know what to study, so I took some pre-med courses, just in case doctoring might be in my future – I’d been told that it would be easier to take these courses sooner rather than later – and I asked people about
Going to Stanford in California was not an easy experience for me. Obsessed with thinking, our professors urged us toward theory, when my focus was shifting toward more and more practical matters. Learning how messed up our world was, I felt eager to step into adulthood and contribute meaningfully. When