The Kid Could Throw
(as told by Dr. Seuss)


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The kid could throw.
Oh boy—could he throw!
He could zip it through rain,
He could zip it through snow.

He could throw to the left,
He could throw to the right,
He could throw in the morning,
He could throw late at night!

The kid had an arm like a coiled-up spring,
And the way that he played?
Well, he just had that zing!

Scouts watched him in high school,
They came by the ton.
They said, “He’s amazing!
He might be The One!”

He threw like a rocket,
He threw like a breeze,
He could spot a defender
While tying his knees!

At fourteen years old—he was spotted! It’s true!
In Eastern Michigan, Junior League too.
He tossed and he turned and he set record pace,
Then he broke them again with a smile on his face!

He'd dodge and he'd spin,
He would leap and he’d dash,
And never once worried
About making a crash.

His coaches all loved him,
They’d cheer, “Let him play!”
They’d hand him the team
And then just walk away!

Three years he went undefeated, oh yes,
No losses, no fumbles, no panic, no stress.
He won with a grin and a nod of his head,
He played like a legend, the other team fled!

Colleges came like a wild, stampede herd!
“Full scholarship! Full ride! Just say the word!”
He picked out a team where he knew he’d win big,
And threw that ol’ ball like a greased-up pig!

He aced all his classes, he drew up the plays,
He practiced at night and through most of his days.
He tossed like a wizard, he dashed like a deer,
And the NFL said, “We want him next year!”

He played on the telly!
The fans went ker-splat!
And screamed, “This boy's magic!
Now how ‘bout that!?”

The coaches built walls to protect his two feet,
And everyone knew—he just couldn’t be beat.
Then came the time—oh, a big choice to make,
He said, “Going pro!” and made the earth quake!

The Texans came calling, they shouted, “He’s ours!”
They offered big bucks and a contract with stars.
He was gonna be great! He was ready to play!
The crowds all went wild on that hot Texas day!

But then—oh dear me—what a turn of the page,
A twist in the tale, a storm on the stage.

A party was held, with music and song,
But something, oh something, went terribly wrong.

A car drove on by, and BANG-BANG they did shoot,
And joy disappeared in the blink of a hoot.

He hadn’t played once, not a quarter or down,
Before fate came to town, and turned smiles to frowns.

They buried him softly, the fans wept with woe,
And whispered, “He could throw. Oh boy—he could throw.”

WHISKEY WISDOM 🎵
by Roger Turner

[Verse 1]
A man is always looking
To get some free advice
So go and find the fellow
Drinking whiskey over ice
Your friends will tell you one thing
While you're both knocking back a beer
But really, I mean really
Is this the stuff you need to hear?

[Verse 2]
Find a whiskey drinker
He'll tell you how to buy a car
He'll share his whiskey wisdom
About what's a good cigar
A man who drinks good whiskey
Whether neat or over ice
Is the best one you can turn to
When you're looking for advice

[Chorus]
🎶 Whiskey wisdom, smooth and slow
Poured out quiet, like you’d know
From an old soul in a leather chair
Who’s seen it all and doesn’t care
He’s not preachin’, he’s just nice
Giving whiskey wisdom over ice 🎶

[Verse 3]
He's made it and he knows it
He's not drinking at the pub
He's sitting in a wing back
Drinking whiskey at the club
He won't talk just to hear it
No small talk or some fad
He’ll tell you straight and simple
The kind of truth that your dad had

[Chorus]
🎶 Whiskey wisdom, smooth and slow
Poured out quiet, like you’d know
From an old soul in a leather chair
Who’s seen it all and doesn’t care
He’s not preachin’, he’s just nice
Giving whiskey wisdom over ice 🎶

[Bridge]
So skip the book, forget the blog
Turn off that podcast monologue
Sit down, pour ******* right
And listen to a man who’s lived some life

[Final Chorus]
🎶 Whiskey wisdom, tried and true
It’s not just what—but how and who
From love to loss, to deals gone bad
He’ll pour it out, the good and sad
No silver spoon, just lived it twice
Giving whiskey wisdom over ice 🎶

[Outro]
So if you’re lost or need direction
Or just some straight advice
Go get yourself some answers
Sharing whiskey over ice

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The Conductor (Expanded Street Poem)


Nothing left in this old town,
I felt I didn’t have much choice—
I jumped aboard a westbound freight,
And that’s when I heard the voice…

“Boy, this here is my car,
You keep the rules, and you'll be fine.
I don’t know you, you don’t know me,
But boy, this car is mine.”

His words clanged like a coupler
When it locks and seals a train,
Rusted through with gravel breath
And notes of soot and rain.

I squinted in the darkness,
Tried to track where the sound came from.
That voice curled 'round the boxcar walls
Like smoke from burning ***.

I asked him where he came from—
He paused before he said,
“Everywhere and Nowhere...
And right now? From just ahead.”

“Now boy, keep your distance,
Keep quiet, leave me be.
I don’t like conversation—
You keep to you, and I to me.”

Just then the train car shifted—
That shudder, steel and soul—
“Them rails are singing, boy,” he said,
“That's the rhythm taking hold.”

“That’s the final shunt you’re hearing,
The coupler’s hymn of fate.
You’re safe now, tucked in iron walls—
No rail man's hand to chase.”

He leaned into the stillness,
Said, “That sound? It starts the song.
The music of the boxcar life—
The world is movin’ on.”

“You see while cars sit stagnant,
While they’re frozen still in place,
The rail men do their hunting—
And we hobo’s learn to brace.”

“But when that coupler snaps, my friend,
That’s when it’s time to dream—
A thousand miles of nowhere
With no promise but the steam.”

I asked him what he meant by that,
He said, “You’ll learn in time.
Just ride the rails and listen, boy—
There’s truth in every line.”

This is an expanded version of my 2020 piece "A Ghost Story".

The Ballad of the Nell McBride (Expanded)

We all have heard the stories
Of spirit ships and ghosts
That sail upon the oceans
And up along the coasts

This tale is a whopper
And I'll not forget the day
So as God is my witness
Listen now, to what I say

We were sitting in the tavern
Telling tales of days of old
When the door, it burst wide open
And Bill came running from the cold

His face as white as ever
Like he just had seen a ghost
When we told him that we thought this
He said, "I did, just up the coast"

We laughed and ordered whiskey
To warm us up inside
"I did, by gum, I saw it—
I saw the Nell McBride"

"There's no way that you saw that boat
It's been sunk a hundred years!"
"A hundred sixty," said a voice
As we tended to our beers

"The Nell McBride was lost, boys
Late eighteen and fifty-nine
You didn't see her, Billy
She's sunk down in the brine"

"I did," said Bill, "I saw her—
I was standing on the beach
She came out of the clouds there"
"Aw, Bill... cut back on the screech"

"I haven't had a drop today
And you know, I don't tell lies
I saw the Captain up on deck
I looked right in his eyes"

The wind was really howling
We all huddled round the fire
As far-fetched as the story was
Old Bill, he was no liar

"The Nell McBride was lost at sea
All fourteen men were drowned
The ship went to the bottom
And no bodies were found"

The barkeep chirped, "We have ghosts here
I've seen a few, I swear
With all those lost at sea near here
I believe they still sail there"

We laughed at him and Billy
"Ghosts? Nope, dead is dead"
But Bill just sat there shaking
He believed the words he'd said

Now me, I was a pup then
Just a minnow, if you please
But I sat and felt my hair rise up
I'd not heard of ghosts like these

"The last time the Nell McBride
Was seen was in aught-four
Old Johnson, at the lighthouse
Said he saw that ship and more"

"They proved Old Johnson crazy
All alone out with the light
‘Twas just the moon a-playing
There was nothing there that night"

Another man chimed in then,
"Old Johnson was no loon
His diary says he saw that ship
'Twas no trick of the moon"

"Okay then boys, tomorrow
We'll meet here and head on out
We'll see the ghost ship sailing
Or we'll see that she is now't"

The wind was really whipping
It was louder than a train
Nobody made a move to leave
They feared the dark, the rain

"Ghost ships sail the waters
I believe to warn us still
I believe the Nell is out there
I believe in our boy Bill"

"There's tales of ships and mermaids
There's been sightings of great whales
Their stories, boys—just stories
They ain't nothing more than tales"

At this the wind was screaming
Like a wail now or a scream
My skin turned cold, my breath stood still—
This could only be a dream

"I remember when Mike Watson
Said he saw that woman black
Standing on her rooftop
Waiting for her man come back"

"I remember that as well," said Bill
"God, old Mike, he loved to talk
He saw her up there weeping
On the iron widow's walk"

So tomorrow it was settled
We would meet and hit the shore
We'd watch for ghostly sailors
And the Nell McBride once more

"Boys, we never made it
We don't talk about that night
See, Billy boy, he left us there
Then vanished out of sight"

"Turns out Billy Boyle
Drowned early in the day
Was it his ghost come calling?
It is not for us to say"

"Bill Boyle washed ashore, you see
Around two, cold and dead
So who it was came through that door
And said the things he said?"

There's ghosts out on the water
Like the ghostly Nell McBride
I swear and cross my heart now
But boys… you must decide

Some say she sails at moonrise
When the tide is running high
With phantom sails a-glowing
And a captain’s hollow cry

And some still hear old Billy
At the tavern, clear as glass
Recounting what he witnessed
As if time refused to pass

So if you walk the shoreline
And the sea begins to moan
Take heed, my friend, and mark my words:
You may not be alone

We all have heard the stories
Of the haunted and the drowned
Of those who sail forever
And are never homeward bound

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‘Twas the Night Before Cooperstown
(With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and through every hall,
Not a creature was stirring — not even a ball.
The jerseys were hung in their cases with pride,
While echoes of greatness still whispered inside.

The plaques on the wall stood silent and still,
Honoring legends of talent and skill.
When out on the concourse arose such a chatter,
The ghosts of the game said, “What could be the matter?”

I peeked from the shadows, all quiet and small,
And what did I see in that sacred hall?
A gathering unlike any seen in the park —
Voices of baseball, lighting the dark.

Vin Scully came first, with a grin ear to ear,
He whispered, “It’s time — pull up a chair here.”
And lo! with his rhythm, so calm and precise:
"It’s time for Dodger baseball!" he said, oh so nice.

Red Barber chimed in with a confident drawl,
“Sit back, folks, relax — this catbird’s gonna call!”
With a wink, he sipped tea from a Brooklyn-style mug,
Declaring, “He’s sittin’ in the catbird seat, snug.”

Mel Allen arrived with his signature cheer,
“How about that?!” rang crisp through the air.
A home run of joy from his booming refrain,
Made the whole Hall of Fame feel young once again.

Jack Buck wandered in, eyes twinkling bright,
“I don’t believe what I just saw tonight!”
And walking beside him with cool Midwestern grace,
Was Harry Caray, joy wide on his face:

“Holy cow!” he roared as he stumbled in bold,
Wearing Cubs blue and a scarf to beat cold.
“Let me tell ya somethin’!” he cried with delight,
“This place is more fun than Wrigley at night!”

Ernie Harwell stepped forth with lyrical pace,
“A foul ball for a young man from Syracuse — front row, third base.”
He nodded to Russ Hodges, who let out a scream:
“The Giants win the pennant! It wasn’t a dream!”

By now the Hall glowed with a magical cheer,
As the voices of baseball rang crystal clear.
From Lindsey Nelson in plaid to Phil Rizzuto’s glee,
“Holy cow!” again echoed with spree.

Bob Uecker rolled in, not one to be late,
“I must be in the front row!” he joked at the gate.
The laughter rolled deep from plaques on the wall,
As legends and stories bounced down every hall.

Then a hush filled the room, not out of fear —
But respect, for The Game was drawing near.
Each voice took a seat, in silence they bowed,
As a figure walked in, calm, humble, and proud.

It wasn’t a slugger, a pitcher, or scout —
But the spirit of baseball, without any doubt.
He tipped his cap gently, and smiled with grace,
“You kept it alive, gave it rhythm and pace.”

“To every kid who fell asleep to your tone,
Who learned of the game through your microphone —
You are the heartbeat, the rhythm, the rhyme.
You made innings into poetry, timeless through time.”

Then back to the mist, each legend did fade,
Back to the ether where memories are made.
But if you listen on clear nights, alone with the score,
You’ll hear Scully, or Buck, or Caray once more.

And as I slipped out of that hallowed domain,
I heard them all call in a soft, sweet refrain —
“Merry Christmas to fans, both the old and the new,
From the voices who brought baseball home… just for you.”

Here's a short story in the style of Stuart McLean’s Vinyl Cafe stories, featuring Dave, Morley, and their annual reluctant plunge into hosting Christmas: his Dave cooks the Turkey is an annual reading in our house. I hope you like this


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“Dave Hosts Christmas (Again)”

A Vinyl Cafe-style story

It was December in the neighbourhood, and that meant a few things.

It meant the old man across the street had once again mounted a plastic Santa on his roof without any obvious method of anchoring it, which meant it would fly off sometime between now and New Year’s. It meant the mailman had switched to a red scarf and a dangerous twinkle. And it meant, most of all, that Dave and Morley were once again preparing to host the Annual Family Christmas.

Not because they wanted to.
But because they had the biggest house.

“It’s not even that big,” Dave grumbled, standing in the living room with a measuring tape and a wounded expression. “The only reason we have the most space is because I didn’t tear down the wall to make an open-concept kitchen like everyone else. And for that, we get thirty-five people and two folding tables?”

Morley, bless her, had stopped listening after the word "wall."

Christmas, you see, did not bring out the best in Dave. He was not what you'd call a festive soul.

Morley, on the other hand, was twinkly and soft around the edges. The type who decants eggnog into a punch bowl and says things like, “Oh, it’s the spirit of the season, Dave,” while Dave mutters things about the spirits disappearing from his liquor cabinet.

Which they did. Every year. Like clockwork.


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The preparation began, as it always did, with the boxes.

Morley would go into the basement to retrieve the boxes of decorations, and Dave would follow her like a reluctant archaeologist uncovering a tomb he had no intention of opening.

One year, a mouse had gotten into the fake snow and made what could only be described as a "holiday nest." Another year, Dave threw out what he thought was a tangled mess of tinsel and lights but was actually Morley's grandmother’s antique angel hair garland. There were repercussions.

This year, things went wrong even earlier than usual.

While hauling up a box labelled “TREE LIGHTS (DO NOT TANGLE!!!)” Dave tripped over the cat and knocked over Morley’s ceramic nativity scene.

Mary lost a head.
The donkey lost a leg.
And the baby Jesus ended up lodged inside Dave’s slipper.


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By the time Christmas Eve arrived, Dave had polished the good glassware (and by “polished” we mean run under warm water and dried with the T-shirt he was wearing), rearranged furniture, and stocked the liquor cabinet, a task he approached with all the solemnity of preparing for siege warfare.

“Do not touch the Lagavulin,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s hidden behind the oatmeal.”

Of course, it was the first bottle gone.


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The family began to arrive.

There was Uncle Reg, who always brought the same thing: a tin of expired smoked oysters and a story about being "nearly deported" in 1978.

There was Cousin Lynn and her gluten-free stuffing no one touched, and Morley’s sister with the purse dog that barked at tinsel.

As usual, no one brought liquor.
But somehow, Dave's bar was bone-dry by 8:00 p.m.

The same jokes were told. The same stories rehashed. Someone (probably Uncle Reg) would invariably ask Dave if he “still sold records out of a van.” Dave would smile, politely, like a man being slowly buried in snow.


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Then the turkey caught fire.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no explosion. Just enough flame to set off the smoke alarm and sear the side of Dave’s hand.

He stood in the kitchen, looking at the charred remains, holding a spatula like a man considering new paths in life.

“We could serve pizza,” Morley offered gently.
“Or move,” said Dave.


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But here’s the thing.

Later that night, after the pizza boxes were stacked high and the last cousin had finally left with a Tupperware full of regret, Dave stood in the quiet living room. He looked at the crooked tree. He saw the crumpled paper, the dented angel, and the half-eaten plate of gingerbread someone had left behind.

And for a moment—just a moment—he smiled.

Because somehow, despite the chaos and the flaming poultry and the looted liquor cabinet… it had been nice.

Not perfect.
Not even particularly good.

But warm.
And full.
And theirs.

Morley came in with two mugs of peppermint tea.

“You survived,” she said.
Dave took the mug. He didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded.
“Only three hundred and sixty-five days until we do it again,” he said.

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I.
In the hush before dusk on All Hallows’ Eve,
When the wind scratches softly at shingles and eaves,
The children emerge in their costumes adorned,
While chimney-smoke dances and pumpkins are warmed.


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II.
They march in procession, sugar in sight,
Through cul-de-sacs dreaming in sodium light.
With sacks that swing and masks askew,
They chant the liturgy: “Trick or treat — boo!”


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III.
The doors swing open with syrupy grins,
Parents as pirates with bowls full of sins.
Chocolate coins and caramel lace
Stick to fingers in ghostly embrace.


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IV.
But the rhythm will shift at the end of the lane,
Where a house hunches down in perennial rain.
It leans like a sigh with its shutters drawn tight—
The house never speaks, but it watches the night.


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V.
With gingerbread trails and jellybean tracks,
The children steer clear, never turning their backs.
For whispers like rustlings drift through the weeds,
And the wind knows a name that nobody repeats.


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VI.
They say there was once, in a season now past,
A boy who dared knock, then vanished too fast.
The house took him in with a crack and a groan,
And all that was left was his flashlight — alone.


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VII.
Windows like eyelids, tight in disdain,
Refuse every echo of laughter or name.
And the steps, like old verses half-forgotten in snow,
Are slick with regret and the grime of woe.


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VIII.
A woman once lived there, or so the tale goes,
With three clocks that ticked in perpetual throes.
She brewed bitter tea with a teaspoon of coal
And stared through her curtains as if counting souls.


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IX.
The cat still remains, though no one has fed it.
It blinks in the attic, like it almost regrets it.
Some claim it can speak when the moon is just right,
But its words are like shadows: thin, brittle, and white.


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X.
Still, once in a decade (or so it is told),
One child is tempted — too brazen, too bold.
They march to the door with the courage of flame,
And knock three short knocks… then forget their own name.


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XI.
So the children pass by with a reverent tone,
Their candy bags heavy, their chatter all gone.
The wind holds its breath as the hedges grow thin—
Even leaves hesitate to rustle that bin.


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XII.
And though no one has seen her, the Woman still waits,
By a clock that ticks backward and grandfathered gates.
She hums something distant, not meant for the ear—
A song for the vanished, not meant for the here.


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XIII.
Thus the street carries on, with its sparkle and fright,
Each Halloween passing, avoiding the blight.
For children know truths that adults won’t recall—
There are doors on this night...
that should not be knocked at all.


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