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.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Pound Ridge
We drove past Pound Ridge. I recalled days spent there but other than the day of John's laughing and a few other scenes that are less specific I could not recall very much. It is true too of other things and who we spend days with is more important than what we may have done. Specifics are less significant than the atmosphere provided.
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