The exact definition of ‘cult’ seemed a bit nebulous, when I researched the term because opinions varied.

One definition claimed that a cult was: having a charismatic leader, self-appointed, who required devoted followers to obey his/her teachings without question.

Another definer stated that a cult was: a group of individuals with the same religious philosophies and beliefs.

We moved to a small town in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon six years ago after buying a business with our partners. Each partner thought the place was lovely but me. I thought the town seemed backward and uncared for.

The sudden fatalistic sound of a huge train engine coming at us made the building shake and made me want to throw up from the terror that overwhelmed me.

People began to scream and hold their hands over their ears. Our kids asked, “What’s that sound, Dad?” and “I’m scared, Mommy!” and “What about Charlie?”

What is it we seek,

When the world looks so bleak,

With all the hatred, chaos and strife?

I seek to be like a bubble we blow,

That can put on a great show,

As it meanders and changes...like life.

“She was frightened of me at first, until I mentioned that I’d seen her at the dinner tent in El Cameron the night before, and the realization dawned on her who I was. I could see that she also realized how much help I might be to her because she gave me a hug as if we were long-lost friends.”

She froze. Two women dashed toward the girl and grabbed her arms pulling her toward the group. I could see the women scolding her as if she were a child and then came the tears. The women put their arms around the girl to soothe her or to hide her, I wasn't sure, but before I could assess the true situation the men came back with a couple of blue vans, and they all piled in and drove away.

The women were plain of face with dull brown hair under their caps and some carried babies of various ages. But one young woman was pregnant and looked nothing like the others. She was naturally pretty with a peachy complexion, blonde hair, and big, blue eyes. She seemed to be looking for something. Without turning her head conspicuously, her gaze was darting about almost frantically.

Yesterday - at the time of this writing - was Father's Day. We celebrated the two fathers in our little family who are close by, texting others who are farther away. Yet, the fathers with whom we celebrated, surprisingly, do not consider themselves fathers. Their reasons prompted me to investigate: what is a father?

It seemed to make a lot more sense to be having a good time in Mexico over the winter while the contractor created the perfect kitchen. He had a lot of work to do making custom cabinets, installing a new floor, new appliances, and creating a totally different layout after the room was gutted. He also had to install a new large bay window in the breakfast nook area and a smaller bay above the sink. Lots of work that I didn’t want to watch being done.

If only I had practiced my beloved guitar,

After learning the cords, I coulda been a big star.

But I would only strum,

Making up songs with a hum.

When the mood hit every now and then.

We all wondered what in the hell we were doing there, from the sounds of the fright and exclamations upon hearing the rifle fire sounding closer and my own feelings. We were very troubled about our roles, as many had never even fired a gun.

Touch. Such a simple yet powerful action.

Not a poke or prod. Those have negative connotations and effects. They are to get attention and are harder. Who wants to be poked?

A touch is softer. It can say, “Hello, dear friend. It’s so good to see you!”

Or it can say, “Hi, my love!”

Or it can say, “You are so special!”

Suddenly we heard loud clomping - rat-a-tat-tatting - and soon a tallish, very slender man dressed in black tight pants, a blousy purple shirt and a green silky scarf around his neck came stomping out in his heeled dancing shoes. The four of us were not only startled by the sudden loud noise but were surprised that the dancer was a man, and not a woman in a red dress as we had expected.

There was still more music up the street, but this time it sounded like a whole orchestra. As we got closer to the sound, I could see that it was, indeed, an orchestra with a violin soloing. The violin was lilting and lovely but instead of seeing a human playing the stringed instrument, we saw a miniature ensemble of characters, one being a male figure with a bald head, dressed in a red shirt and black pants, standing and playing a violin, controlled by a puppet master who stood behind the little guy.

It was going to be two years since Pete died, her husband of nearly forty years. Thirty-nine years, seven months, and twenty-two days, Alice kept reminding herself when she felt downright depressed from the loss and the loneliness, which was often. Too often, her friends would tell her when she’d call to sob out her misery over the phone.

When does a traveler get tired of traveling?

When does a writer get tired of writing?

When does a doer of anything get tired of doing anything

they love?

A big damn bird flew in front of our car,

As we drove down the road to Seville (Sayveea).

It landed in a field but was too far

To see what it might be-a.

Was it a giant bird or small plane?

I chuckled to myself.

That thought was silly and quite inane

Yet I knew it was no elf.

Our trip from Valencia to Granada in the rental car was freeing and amazing. Freeing because we could go anywhere, instead of being stuck in a train to only go where the schedule took us. And it was amazing because we could see areas beyond the windows of the trains we rode. In the trains, we had to go through tunnels, under bridges, past towns, and the seaside with limited scopes of seeing what we passed from the faster speeds and landscapes that whizzed by in a blur.

Most people are familiar with the song Castles in the Sky by Ian Van Dahl, about life and dreams, but what about real castles that reach up to the sky? Ever wonder why they were built so high above everything else? Or do you assume it’s because the king wanted to be far above his lowly kingdom to rule over it and make the minions remember his point of power and placement above all others?

Graffiti all over the buildings, Oh my!

How can they let this go on?

The colors covering spaces we walked by,

Miss-matched browns would have covered each one,

If we were in the States, that is,

For graffiti is not condoned.

But in España it’s encouraged, it ‘tis,

Because it was there wherever we roamed.