I don’t get out to walk much these days.
Or, I should say, that I walk 15 to 20 miles a day and so don’t get out to walk the neighborhood like I used to.
Leave a CommentAuthor: Patrick Dobson
Dr. Patrick Dobson is a work in progress until his termination. In the meantime, He is a writer, scholar, postman, and college professor living in Kansas City, MO.
The University of Nebraska Press published his travel memoirs, Canoeing the Great Plains: A Missouri River Summer in 2015 and Seldom Seen: A Journey into the Great Plains in 2009. Canoeing the Great Plains won the 2016 High Plains Book Award in Creative Nonfiction and the Thorpe Menn Literary Excellence Award. His essays and poems have been published in New Letters, daCunha, Kansas City Star, Garo, Wood Coin, and JONAHmagazine, and others.
Dobson earned a doctorate in American History and Literature at the University of Missouri-Kansas City in 2013. He has edited books, taught journalism, and been a union ironworker. He now teaches American History, Modern Latin American History, and Western Civilization at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, KS.
He looks forward to hearing from you soon.
The sun shone in an azure sky. While it was warm, fall was in the air. The season had stripped the few trees in the vast, 86-acre cemetery, part of Independence, KS’ park/cemetery/zoo complex. It was the kind of fall day we have all experienced, and the kind of day that will appear next year and the year after into eternity.
Leave a CommentEach day runs into the next. Life has become a series of episodes, everyone much like the other. I get up at 7:15, sit on the edge of the bed and wonder what this is all about.
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I’ve been dithering all day. For the first time in over six months, I’ve had two days off in a row. They come desperately needed. My route is over 17 miles and I walked that, plus, the last seven days, excepting Sunday. Each day was at least ten hours long, and a couple were over twelve.
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When I was a kid, all through to the sixth grade, I cried all the time. Helplessness and frustration drove me to tears. The condition became critical enough that my teacher, Miss Milazzo, sent me in for a serious talk with the enigmatic and scary Franciscan priest named Father Francis, who always dressed in black monk habit.
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