His name was Tim Koss, a Lieutenant of detectives when I was a rookie police officer.  Koss was a tall, distinguished-looking man in the mode of Cary Grant or Stewart Granger, prone to monogrammed cardigan sweaters, subtle jewelry, and expensive footwear.  There was a reserved elegance about him that women were drawn to and [...]]]>

His name was Tim Koss, a Lieutenant of detectives when I was a rookie police officer.  Koss was a tall, distinguished-looking man in the mode of Cary Grant or Stewart Granger, prone to monogrammed cardigan sweaters, subtle jewelry, and expensive footwear.  There was a reserved elegance about him that women were drawn to and men trusted.  His wife balanced him nicely, also tall and slender, worthy of displaying prizes on “The Price is Right”.  When the two of them were viewed together, the casual observer might conclude that Mount Olympus was short a couple of residents.  In truth, Koss was bright, slightly depressed, with a twisted sense of humor, and a wry way of looking at the world.  For unknown reasons, he took an interest in my young, rookie self, and became somewhat of a mentor to me during my first year as a cop.

As of this writing, it is May of 2010.  There was a celebration at my house this morning.  Last night was very stormy – heavy rain, excessive lightning, brutal winds – the temporary finale of several days of harsh weather that produced tornados in Oklahoma and Kansas, hail up to baseball size here and [...]]]>

As of this writing, it is May of 2010.  There was a celebration at my house this morning.  Last night was very stormy – heavy rain, excessive lightning, brutal winds – the temporary finale of several days of harsh weather that produced tornados in Oklahoma and Kansas, hail up to baseball size here and there, flashfloods all over tornado alley, and over five inches of rain at our place.  As of this a.m. it’s still raining a little, but not storming, and our number two cattle dog, Clancy, will sleep a lot of this day.  For some reason, she has a grudge against lightning and feels obligated to invite it to come down and fight like a man – or dog in her case.  She rages at storms, bouncing around, calling Thor names, ready to do battle with the tempest, validating the old adage that it is not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.  The long night of struggle is over now and she is tired.  This morning, the wind has laid, the rain has softened, and all is clean and new, and the birds, free now from three days of brutal pounding, are celebrating.

In the early spring of 1975, I quit my job, and my wife and I filled a Volkswagen Thing with us, camping gear, a giant Schnauzer puppy, and took to the road with no destination in mind.  A few days later we found ourselves in Brown County, Indiana, a truly [...]]]>

A Gift in the Fog

In the early spring of 1975, I quit my job, and my wife and I filled a Volkswagen Thing with us, camping gear, a giant Schnauzer puppy, and took to the road with no destination in mind.  A few days later we found ourselves in Brown County, Indiana, a truly lovely area with rolling hills, scenic valleys, quaint artist’s communities, and more covered bridges per square whatever than any place else on the globe.  We decided to stay for a few days, and pitched our tent in a rambling campground between two wooded hills in one of those scenic valleys, 50 feet from the obligatory babbling brook.