During the coming new year I plan to take delight in reaching out with the aid of my newly acquired $10 aqua-colored desktop rotary phone.

The heady scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted through the front garden as an anonymous figure secreted two jars of unopened pickles onto a finely appointed doorstep. One jar contained kosher spears, the other sweet slices.

The Purdey silver-plate duck head is not just a bottle opener.

Walking down the sidewalk of a densely populated Southern city, in the most genteel of neighborhoods filled with well-tended homes of historical architectural interest, a gentleman close to my heart came face to face with a chicken.

I don’t mind squirrels eating the sunflower seeds from my bird feeder, but I do mind them eating my cashmere sweater.

Zorro has his signature look. The cape, the mask covering the upper half of his face, his tailored trousers and shirt, all black. Zorro’s hat, the sombrero cordobes, pulls the ensemble together. I love Zorro. Who doesn’t? Certainly not the man opposite me on the other side of the gas pump do…

“Where is our mailbox?” asked the sign-holding protestors, many of whom wore black capris, white blouses, straw hats and masks.

If the wisdom of those growing old is infinite, why did I leave my house wearing my pants inside out? I hope I’m not slipping.

My first brush with the law came at a very young age.

In my dream there is a well-groomed, good-looking man in his prime years walking down my front steps toward my front door. He pauses half-way down the walkway, looking not at my beautiful flowers, not at the crab apple tree friends planted as a house-warming gift 33 years ago. Instead he obs…

It’s a dangerous business, walking out one’s own front door, climbing into a truck and towing a vintage 1967 Aristocrat Lo Liner to a secret backcountry campsite for a short getaway.

Inquiries about the ball-biting beaver seem to come up with regularity at Crater Lake on Old Pass Road.