Saturday Morning Post, Vol. 44

Dead Man’s Curve.

The legend. The myth. The moniker. The infamous curve on interstate 90 in Cleveland, OH. While we’re all speeding through downtown at 65mph (of course there are those with death wishes hurtling pass at 75mph), suddenly: yellow signs! Lights! 35 mph! Because out of flipping nowhere a curve barely short of 90 degrees shows up.

And every time I drive through it, I think who the frickity frack designed this, something that will be eventually nicknamed Dead Man’s Curve like something out of an old western. Like this is the MIDwest not the WILDwest.


Watching House Hunters is really just judging the health of different couples’ relationships.

Me: That guy’s a jerk.
Me: He should just want to make his wife happy.
Me: These people are so entitled. They’re complaining about counter space in a kitchen with an island and counters wrapping around the whole place? What do they do, run a bakery?
Me: Why is he complaining about wainscoting? Some people would kill for wainscoting like that.
Me: I give this marriage five years.
Me: One day she’s gonna give it to him that they didn’t buy the house she really wanted.
Me: Entertaining this, entertaining that. We’ll come to 2020 and ya’ll gonna be wondering why you spent so much money on a house that was good for having people over. You’re gonna wish you bought the one with the spare room.
Me: Did he just dis original cabinets from like the 1940’s that are in perfect condition? They don’t make them like that anymore!
Me: How did these people ever get married? They agree on absolutely nothing. Not even budget.


The wind swept the snow along the beach like – sand. Which was a bit ridiculous considering there was sand under the snow, so the wind was just sweeping snow like sand over the sand.


An old man comes to the beach with a black knit- hat on his balding head, a long gray beard like he’s the wizard that resides at the lighthouse. Green shirt and black pants. He’s leading three little dogs all in their own winter coats. A black, squat pug, another pug, and a fuzzy dachshund looking dog that looks like the canine version of the old man. Maybe it’s his brother, who he turned into a dog after abusing his wizardry.


I could run and leap to the moon
jump on the clouds like stepping stones
I’d put stars in my basket
and use the breeze for a scarf


I always draw stars, because stars are hope even on the darkest nights. “There is light up there that no one can touch,” Samewise Gamgee said. No matter what cloud is suffocating, no matter what haze blocks the light and chokes the dawn, the sun still comes up. The stars are still burning in the sky as bright and as whimsical as they were before we knew darkness and before we knew fear. Stars are promises.

Photo by Jake Weirick on Unsplash

One response to “Saturday Morning Post, Vol. 44”

  1. ❤️❤️❤️ now I just want to watch House Hunters with you!

    Liked by 1 person

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