She told me on many ocassions that she was not a writer. She had no memories and she had nothing to write about. I remembered the poetic letters she wrote back in the sixties, when she lived in San Francisco and I was a newlywed on the farm in Georgia. I read her letters over and over, trying to imagine myself living in a fascinating city on the Pacific Ocean. She was young and she was brave, I thought, to head out on her own. While I taught children in the same town where I had lived all my life, she experienced life in a way I never would.
We meet for lunch about once a month and always have some good laughs.
