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He sits in a chair of his own design, hewn from local timber. Arms laid like lumber on the armrests, trunk immobile, head erect, eyes at rest, he sees and judges who passes before him. Mostly, that’s us. Read the rest of this entry »

The day I nearly lost him, he was such a little man. Rolling his miniature suitcase down the concourse with his boarding pass, threading his way through the taller adults, he looked back just once like a confident boy friend, roguish that he was in the lead, then disappeared from the face of the earth, a suddenly vulnerable child without his mother. Read the rest of this entry »

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Behind the Pseudonym

The pen name davidbdale honors my mother Beatrice (Bea) and my father Dale

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