ADVANCED SEARCH CRITERIA
I had a revered uncle with whom were shared long-winded philosophical discourses. Perhaps the discoursing was mine; his, the patient listening.
As some may know, I have "a thing for letters." I write them, receive. read and reread them; I save them, even write home about them. Last week, mid "lockdown," I received a letter I had written in 1995!
Last Saturday I made two trips up to the farmers' market on 6th Street in search, not for farm fresh produce, but for a sense of normalcy... for the relaxed friendly smiles of the vendors under their frayed beach umbrellas and their proudly displayed "oh so fresh corn, peppers. onions and thyme."
"Being of two minds" has a ring to it, but misses a strategic something I call my SELF. I tend toward the comforts, regulations that have brought me thus far.
When you're told, "Yes ma'am, I live in Columbus, but I was born in Caledonia," you have a "Me Too Moment" like no other!
It's an old thing, that matchbox, same as anything you'd find in Gerry's houses, even the sad apartment on 12th Street where he died.
It's Sunday morning in New York. Ordinarily I'd be snuggled down with the Times, coffee or watching birds splashing in the last of the rain. But I can't get comfortable.
I remember a grand KER SPLAT as I hit the sidewalk ... (softened somewhat by the puddle into which I'd fallen. I remember the downpour two minutes before with raindrops the size of tea cups. I remember kind voices advising me to get up and out of the crosswalk.
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