My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
In Another Time and Place
I was correcting papers and realized that despite the activity I was, and for some time had been, remembering another time and place. It was White Plains a long while ago. The sense was of the happiness with which those memories began and this time no sadness had to follow.
Labels:
appreciation,
distractions,
gratitude,
memory,
nostalgia,
past
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