B.B. Potter
Bio
A non-fiction writer crossing over to fiction, trying to walk a fine line between the two.
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Stories (28)
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Skiing: The Ritual of Winter
First tracks on a bit of fresh powder, a dusting of white still clinging to the trail-edging pine trees, the soft whirr of the chair lift, the quick shuuush of skis passing by as I stand and soak it all up. This is why I got up early, made the drive, hauled the equipment, bought the ski pass. I've been skiing most of my life, and I can't imagine not going through all of this bother, because the reward is so splendid. It just gets harder through the years.
By B.B. Potter25 days ago in Humans
Serendipity and Museums: My 2024 List and 2025 Project
When our walking tour ended in Salamanca, Spain, my friend and I hot-footed it over to Museo de Salamanca. We paid one euro each to see twenty minutes worth of riches in the few rooms still open. At the front desk, the attendant impressed upon us that they were about to close for siesta. The museum shuts down from 2 to 5 p.m. Lucky for us, we were able to get a quick glimpse at two rooms with historic paintings and furniture, and we had a good look at the holdings in the little archaeological section.
By B.B. Potterabout a year ago in Motivation
Sandals
Dear Mom and Dad, It’s my second year at the seminary, and I’m pleased to tell you that I am positive that the priesthood is definitely for me. I had thought the vow of poverty might be the hardest, but I’ve been purposefully spending down my stipend in acts of charity and almsgiving. I used my last $10 to buy popcorn from some Cub Scouts at church, then I gave it to Sister Rosemary Frances to share with the nuns. It really felt good that I was able to share with them.
By B.B. Potterabout a year ago in Psyche
Into the Drink
It was something he loved, challenging Mother Nature, challenging himself. Be it free climbing or deep diving, doing it was when he felt most alive. When I married him, I knew that was part of the new calculus of how I’d live the rest of my life. Pursue something daring with him, or stay home and worry. It was a mixed bag. I didn’t want to be the old bag.
By B.B. Potterabout a year ago in Fiction
