Life Began For Me, When

The Air And The Earth Interpenetrated In The Warm Gusts Of Spring; The Soil Was Full Of Sunlight, And The Sunlight Full Of Red Dust. The Air One Breathed Was Saturated With Earthy Smells, And The Grass Under Foot Had A Reflection Of The Blue Sky In It.

One January Day, Thirty Years Ago, The Little Town Of Hanover, Anchored On A Windy Nebraska Tableland, Was Trying Not To Be Blown Away.

Money Is A Protection, A Cloak; It Can Buy One Quiet, And Some Sort Of Dignity.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There — That, One Might Say, Is Created.

I First Met Myra Henshawe When I Was Fifteen, But I Had Known Her About Ever Since I Could Remember Anything At All.