The church walls shining in arches, growing vines, peacocks, and vases.
Flip a card of power at Ravenna— that a battery comes alive—flip a card
Softer Selves; Ravenna; Romanticism; Cloister in Barcelona; When Ants Began
A Boy’s Delight
The four of us stood under the automatic porch light. Kandy cradled Elena while I held a sleeping Daniel. "I expect the bad witch to come out at any moment," said Kandy, as I pressed the doorbell. I looked at the inn’s outer wall of dark overlapping half round shingles and had to agree.
When the door finally opened it was not a witch, but an old, old man who gazed out at us. Yet somehow he brought the freshness of a mountain lake with him. His right cheek bulged as though he constantly chewed tobacco. He wore a green tweed suit coat, red vest, white shirt and dark trousers. It was eleven pm in the summer, twenty-three degrees and we were all in shorts and tee-shirts.
Glue Myself Shut
I keep my hands to myself. It makes things easier. I pull my elbows in tight, cross my arms over my body, and take up as little space as I can. Everything I need, I carry with my own limbs, and I don’t have to worry about overstepping bounds if I never step outside of my own personal bubble.
Dink Responsibly, Don’t Get Smashed
“Charlie Suskind is a prideful man who hates losing,” George said. “He’s only lost this tournament once. He fired one of the guys who beat him and made life a living hell for the other until he quit. Our jobs are on the line. Got it?”
The 1964-65 New York World’s Fair
Every September, my husband Dan watches the US Open. Broadcast live from Flushing Meadows, Queens, where I have roots, it takes place on the former grounds of the 1964-65 New York World's Fair. I've never latched onto tennis, but I'll often watch for a few minutes, waiting for the inevitable shot of the Unisphere so I can make my annual comment, “I saw that with my family at the World's Fair.”
Seventy – Five Notebooks
“Dad, what are you doing?”
He ignored her and continued writing. His right hand moved in a flurry, a stubby yellow pencil gripped tightly in his fingers. He mumbled something to himself, paused for a moment, then scribbled again. He appeared to be transcribing the contents of one notebook into another. Both notebooks were filled with his own handwriting.