Ken Smith
Ken Smith
@ksmith@akakensmith.com

These pieces were not written by the late British poet, Ken Smith (1938-2003), nor the other Ken Smiths who make bass guitars, study marine biology, sell cars, teach card counting, paint war scenes in oils, guide bear hunters in Idaho, teach forest management, study immunology, do war reporting, sell real estate, photograph nature, teach cryptology, provide legal counsel to the gay and lesbian community, realign the spines of athletes, listen for seismic faults in the Sierra Nevadas, operate a 4-axis milling machine, work for sustainable development in Alberta, play blackjack, or criticize Junk English. Nor were the pieces written by the Ken Smith who is “the Elvis Costello of Landscape Architecture” nor the one who serves in the Pennsylvania House of Representatives nor the one who hit a home run for the Atlanta Braves in 1983. I only wish.

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  • Autumn in the Neighborhood

    This summer we remembered to pinch the buds off our chrysanthemum plants in late July, and so for several weeks now we have enjoyed a stout row of bushy chrysanthemums covered with rusty yellow and red blossoms below the front window. A couple of weeks ago, to top it off, our children painted a four…

  • Opinion Polls, Common Sense, and the Pleasures of Reading Essays

    For several months this year pollsters said that President Bush had an absolutely tremendous approval rating. Huge majorities of people applauded his approach to various aspects of public policy. Whether I agree or disagree with their popular views, mega-majorities like this make me nervous, and I’m usually glad when any politician’s rating dips back down…

  • Pride and Hype Along the Interstate

    If you traveled this summer you probably saw something thoroughly dispiriting once or twice along the way. I know I did. There was, for example, my visit to Wall Drug. Tucked in between the sacred, scenic Black Hills and the arid moonscape of the Badlands is the little town of Wall, South Dakota, where the…

  • Potawatomi Zoo

    It’s only been a few days since two or three feral dogs found their way into South Bend’s Potawatomi Zoo. Once inside, the dogs entered the Australian exhibit, where they killed thirteen of the zoo’s fourteen wallabies and injured some other animals. Now at the entrance to the zoo a large rustic wreath of carefully…

  • Vacation Mishaps

    When I was visiting relatives last week I heard several old stories of vacation mishaps and I realized that I haven’t had that kind of problem lately. Sure, my wife, my daughters, and I have been snagged in highway traffic near Chicago on a Friday evening, one of those mind-rending back-ups where as an antidote…

  • A Season Pass to the Beach

    I have come to think that New Year’s resolutions are wasted here in the upper Midwest. When we’re trudging under dismal skies through those wet and chilly winter days, how many of us can find the time for proper introspection, and then commit enough psychic energy to change our lives? Our climate may also lead…

  • Home Repair and Family History

    The metal storm door was sticking last week, and when I ignored it for a few days the lower panel popped out and dropped onto the ground. I took the whole door down and reassembled it and tightened it with corner brackets, but I figured I would have to trim the wooden door frame to…

  • A Talent for Happiness

    The last few times I’ve driven into Chicago I’ve been lucky with the traffic, but you know how it goes on the Dan Ryan Expressway – on a bad day, you can spend an hour between any two mile markers, watching your knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. This week, on my way back…

  • Farewell, Olympians

    It’s almost time to extinguish the giant flame, and shoo away the crowds, and fold up the Spiderman suits, and shelve the endless highlight clips, and get on with our lives. We’ll do without the Winter Olympics for four years, and then another generation of super athletes and referees will stand before the world and…

  • The Con Man

    I was nineteen when I first encountered a con man. The greenhouse where I worked usually hired single guys like me, youngsters without any plans who could get by on a dime or two more than minimum wage. But one day the boss brought in a white-haired fellow named George. He was not much taller…