Fun

Living with a Snake: The Unofficial HOA President

I woke up this morning to find Shadow—the unofficial HOA president of my front porch—coiled up like he’d been waiting for me. You know that look snakes get when they’re about to deliver bad news? Sort of a silent, judgmental squint. Shadow had it.

Apparently, he’s upset about “recent changes to porch policy.” I didn’t know we had porch policy. I also didn’t know he could file complaints.

But there he was, tail tapping like a tiny gavel, clearly ready to litigate.

His grievances, as best I could interpret:

  • I moved the rocking chair. Shadow claims this disrupted his “commute.” I explained that most commutes don’t involve slithering under furniture, but he hissed something that sounded like “ableist.”
  • I swept. He said this was “an act of aggression.” I said it was Tuesday.
  • I stepped outside without announcing myself. He insists I should knock before entering my own porch. I told him that’s not how porches work. He said that’s exactly what someone who doesn’t respect boundaries would say.

Then he stared at me for a long moment—one of those slow, reptilian blinks that feels like a performance review—and slithered off to sunbathe, clearly exhausted from the emotional labor of managing me.

So now I’m living with the knowledge that my porch snake thinks I’m a menace.

I’m considering drafting a formal apology, maybe even offering him a tiny union card. But knowing Shadow, he’ll demand dental benefits, which seems unreasonable for a creature with fangs that regenerate like discount razor blades.

Anyway, that’s the update from the foothills: I’ve been reprimanded by a snake. Again.

How to Stay Cool During a Heatwave

Hot Enough for Ya? A Survival Guide for the Season That’s Trying to Cook Us

After ten straight days of summer behaving like it’s auditioning for the role of “Inferno: The Musical,” I think it’s time we acknowledge the obvious: the sun has lost its mind. It’s no longer shining. It’s attacking.

The Heat Has Entered Its Villain Era

There’s hot, and then there’s Colorado-in-July hot, where the air itself feels like it’s been microwaved and the squirrels are walking around with tiny towels draped over their shoulders. Even Shadow the porch snake is probably lying belly-up somewhere muttering, “I didn’t sign up for this.” After ten days of this, you start to realize the sun isn’t just shining—it’s judging you. Step outside and it feels like it’s saying, “Oh, look who thought shorts were a good idea.”

Signs You’ve Been in a Heatwave Too Long

  • You’ve begun rating shady spots like they’re Airbnb rentals.
  • You open the front door and immediately close it again, whispering, “Nope.”
  • You’ve started carrying water bottles the way medieval knights carried swords.
  • You’ve considered befriending the neighbor’s swamp cooler.
  • You’ve caught yourself saying things like, “Maybe I’ll go outside later,” knowing full well you won’t.

How to Survive Without Melting into a Decorative Puddle

  • Hydrate like you’re training for the Olympics. At this point, water isn’t a beverage—it’s a lifestyle.
  • Move slowly. Not because you’re tired, but because rapid movement creates friction, and friction creates heat, and we’re not adding any more heat to this situation.
  • Eat cold things. Watermelon. Ice cream. Popsicles. Frozen peas straight from the bag. No judgment.
  • Become nocturnal. The raccoons have been doing it for years. They seem fine.
  • Avoid any activity that requires thinking. Thinking generates brain heat. Brain heat is unacceptable.
  • Stand in front of the fridge with the door open. Yes, your parents told you not to. But your parents didn’t live through this.

Bonus Tip: Embrace the Delirium

After a week of heat, everyone gets a little weird. You start talking to your houseplants. You start naming your fans. You start believing your air conditioner has opinions about you. Lean into it. Summer is a character-building season. Mostly it builds the character of someone who mutters, “Good grief,” every time they step outside.

Closing Thoughts from the Foothills

We’ll get through this. We always do. The monsoon rains will eventually wander in like a late dinner guest, and we’ll all pretend we weren’t about to lose our minds.

Until then, stay cool, stay hydrated, and remember: if you see me outside between noon and 6 PM, something has gone terribly wrong.

The Snake That Calls My Porch Home

Shadow has lived under my front concrete porch slab for three seasons now. I don’t know if Shadow is he or she, and honestly, Shadow doesn’t seem too concerned about clearing that up. What I do know is that when the weather warms, Shadow slides out from the little gap near the roses and stretches out in the sunshine like it’s a personal spa appointment. Shadow is the name I gave because it slithers into the shadows when I come near.

We’ve developed a kind of understanding, Shadow and I. I water the roses most mornings, and the moment that first splash of cold water hits the soil, Shadow gives me a look—if snakes can give looks—and quietly slips back into the nest beneath the porch. No fuss, no drama, just a smooth retreat, as if to say, Alright, old man, I’ll let you finish your gardening.

By the time the sun climbs high again, Shadow is usually back out, soaking up the heat on the walkway. I’ve come to expect the sight, the same way you expect a familiar neighbor to wave from across the street. There’s something comforting about a creature returning year after year, choosing your porch as home base.

I never planned on having a snake as a seasonal roommate, but here we are. Shadow keeps the yard free of pests, I keep the roses watered, and we both enjoy the Colorado sunshine in our own ways. Not a bad arrangement for two very different creatures sharing the same little patch of earth.

Surviving Monday Mornings

Good morning, readers.
If you’re reading this, congratulations—you’ve survived another Monday morning. That alone deserves a medal, or at least a second cup of coffee.

Mondays have a personality all their own. They don’t tiptoe in politely. No, they kick down the door like a sitcom neighbor and shout, “Rise and shine, sunshine!” while we’re still trying to remember our own names.

The alarm goes off, and suddenly the bed feels like the most comfortable place on earth. The dog looks at you like, “You’re getting up? Voluntarily?” The coffee maker sputters like it’s also questioning your life choices. And the to‑do list you wrote last night—when you were feeling optimistic and borderline delusional—now reads like a cruel prank.

But here’s the thing: Mondays are honest. They don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are—a slightly chaotic, mildly judgmental restart button. And once you get past the first ten minutes, they’re not so bad. You find your rhythm. You remember how to be a functioning human. You even start believing you might accomplish something today.

So here’s to Monday: the day that tests us, teases us, and occasionally trips us, but still gives us a fresh start whether we’re ready or not.

May your coffee be strong, your patience be long, and may you avoid replying‑all to anything before noon.

Why I Write: The Magic of Words

Audio Podcast 2 minutes

Good morning readers.

I’ve come to accept that I suffer from a lifelong case of diarrhea of the pen. Words just… happen. They spill out, tumble forward, and insist on being arranged into something—anything—before the day is done. Fourteen books on Amazon, nineteen magazines, and nearly five blog posts a week stand as evidence that whatever this condition is, it’s chronic and probably incurable.

And honestly, I hope it never gets cured.

I don’t write for money. I don’t write for bestseller lists. I don’t write because I think the world is waiting breathlessly for my next paragraph. I write because something in me feels more alive when the words are moving. I write because stories tap me on the shoulder like impatient children and say, “Well? Are you going to let me out or not?”

Most days, I simply give in and let them run.

My joy doesn’t come from sales charts or rankings. It comes from the quiet, human magic of knowing that someone—somewhere—read something I wrote and felt a spark. Maybe a smile. Maybe a memory. Maybe a moment of comfort. Maybe just the sense that they’re not walking this earth alone.

That’s enough for me. More than enough.

Writing has become my way of staying awake to the world. It keeps me curious. It keeps me grateful. It keeps me connected to people I may never meet but somehow still understand. Every sentence is a small bridge, and I’ve always loved building bridges.

So I’ll keep writing. Not because I’m chasing anything, but because this is who I am: a man who finds meaning in the steady rhythm of words, day after day, page after page. A man who knows that creating something—anything—is its own kind of success.

And if even one person reads it and feels a little lighter, a little seen, a little more connected, then every word was worth it.

Experience the Magic of Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta

In October 2005 my wife and I took a trip to Albuquerque for the balloon festival. it is one of the largest balloon festivals in the world. We had a blast and got to view many strange and unusual balloons. Here are some.

https://albuquerque.com/albuquerque-international-balloon-fiesta-tips-guide/

Why Fred the Fox is Our Beloved Local Celebrity

Audio Podcast 3 minutes

Good morning, readers. Let me tell you a little tale about Fred—the neighborhood fox who has, over time, become something of a local celebrity around here. Fred isn’t just any fox. He’s got personality. He’s got charm. And he walks these foothill streets like he’s the unofficial mayor of the block.

Fred first showed up a 4 summers ago, trotting down the sidewalk with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Tail high, ears perked, eyes bright—he had the look of a fox who had places to be and opinions about how quickly he should get there. The neighbors noticed him right away. You don’t ignore a fox who behaves like he owns the HOA.

Over time, Fred developed a routine. Every morning, just after sunrise, he’d make his rounds. He’d pause at the corner house where Mrs. Callahan leaves out a bowl of water. He’d sit for a moment in the shade of her lilac bush, as if reviewing the day’s agenda. Then he’d trot down the street, stopping occasionally to inspect a flower bed or stare curiously at a lawn ornament that hadn’t been there the day before. Fred likes to stay informed.

One of my favorite Fred moments happened last July. I was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee when Fred strolled up the driveway like he had an appointment. He stopped at the bottom step, looked at me, and gave a single nod—as if to say, “Morning. Hot one today. Stay hydrated.” Then he continued on his way, leaving me with the distinct impression I’d just been given advice by a fox.

Adults adore him. Even the dogs seem to respect him. There’s something about Fred that brings out the best in everyone. Maybe it’s the way he moves—calm, unhurried, completely at ease in his own fur. Maybe it’s the reminder that even in a busy neighborhood, nature still wanders through, checking on us from time to time.

This year, as the hot days of summer settle in, Fred has adjusted his schedule. He’s a dawn‑and‑dusk fox now, avoiding the midday heat like a seasoned local. I saw him just yesterday, stretched out under the shade of a pine tree, looking for all the world like he was on vacation. If foxes could wear sunglasses, Fred would.

There’s something comforting about having him around. He reminds us to slow down, to pay attention, to enjoy the simple things—a cool patch of shade, a quiet morning, a familiar path. Fred doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t worry. He just lives, fully and confidently, right where he is.

And maybe that’s why we love him so much. Fred is a little piece of wildness, a little spark of joy, a reminder that even in a world full of noise, there’s still room for wonder.

Not a bit of truth to this tale