Periodically, I will shoot off a newsletter, letting you know where my musings are taking me, what I’m reading and watching. If something speaks to you, please let me know.
I’m writing to you from Southern Oregon, sitting not in the sun at the picnic table but instead from inside our trailer, because Oregon decided to give us hours of misty rainfall, clouds, and fog.
In 1945, my mother had answered an advertisement that Augusta had placed in the local newspaper, seeking employment as a housekeeper.
I love you so much, Mom, that it sometimes hurts. Dark curls frame your face as I watch you apply your red lipstick. Somehow, you make red lipstick look natural.
The inimitable sounds and crazy rhythms of ping pong remind me to breathe in the salty smell of spray from waves crashing onto the cliffs at high tide.
As I watched two boys in my grade-school class throw the familiar sphere back and forth to each other, I was amazed at how well it sailed through the air.
It’s only mid-August. The days are still hot and long. Yet there’s an aura of anticipation in the air.
