 Kenny Rogers
Dad would talk to anyone, even Kenny Rogers. No shit, Kenny Rogers. I was quite embarrassed actually. Not about meeting Kenny Rogers, but because of Dad’s chronic acts of friendship. He’d walk up to a stranger on the street with a familiar gambit, “Hi, I’m Wes Wilberg. What’s your name?”
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 Autumn
Last week, a doe we have named Brownie, dines on acorns scattered across our lawn. I walk toward her. Pop, the firecracker nut announces my approach. Spooked by the alarm, she walks to the woods. Today, I avoid acorns as I approach her. Other deer lift tails and run. Brownie lingers. I recall my wife, Suzan’s, observation this morning. “Brownie’s inquisitive. She’s different from the other deer. Brownie wants to know us.”  November 1967
“Hi Ray, I haven’t seen you since high school. What have you been up to?” “Hey, Richard, great to see you. I pick up garbage for the village.” “Really? Alone?” I ask.  October 1959
The dance floor is as wide as an ocean. She sits alone, on the distant shore. Her boyfriend likely talks football with classmates. Team captain, he is. Now is my chance to ask her to dance. What if she says no? All my friend’s eyes are glued on me. Jane is Homecoming Queen. Why would she dance with me?  An endless, temperate, late spring day lay before us when Dad and I stood waist deep in the cold green water of Crystal Lake. We were fishing for pan fish.
“I got another one,” Dad shouted. His fly rod arched, pointing toward the hooked sunfish that swam circles beneath the water’s glass-like surface. We had fished for a couple of hours. Dad’s creel, a fabric pouch he strapped to his waist just above water line, bulged with the day’s catch. |
About the Author
Richard Wilberg is a creativity coach, musician, photographer, and former business leader who lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
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