I'm surrounded by trees. The world is green, full and growing. Here, under the shadow of the old porch, I watch the trees sway back and forth, their limbs pregnant with leaves. I rewind to the past; back to a time when there were no worries about jobs, or issues, or problems that come with being an adult. For a few moments, my parent's house is again filled with the smell of summer: watermelon and fruit and the earthy-oily scent of my father's coveralls after a day in the oil field. There, briefly, I remember the dogged heat of the day, the squish of soft asphalt underneath my tennis shoes and the gritty feeling of dirt mixed with sweat. I close my eyes and relive the pleasure of the dark, damp cool that filled the house, the aroma of cantaloupe and the taste of ice cold tea. At that time, Kick-the-Can was a national pastime and transportation was simple -- I travelled a million miles on a beat-up Schwinn three-speed bicycle. I stand quietly and strain to remember my previo
A blog dedicated to good writing and journalism as a career. Inspired by the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Consider this that small, funky coffee shop at the corner of Main and Cyberspace. All stories are written by M. Scott Carter, chief political reporter for The Oklahoman. Your comments are welcomed, but only if you're willing to include your name, we don't do anonymous. My name's on every story, you want to play in the big leagues? Post yours, too.