Home sick from work with the flu; with four feet of snow outside by the woodshed, it hardly feels like spring is anywhere near. Not much writing lately either, which always maks me feel down. Just read Timothy Egan's opinion piece in the NYT with St. Patrick's day around the corner, typically maudlin view of what constitutes identity. The soul of suffering is universal and not endemic to any race or people. But it is what makes us tick, therefore I welcome my sickness and yesterday felt almost alive walking up hill against the wind, feeling the shivers down my back. I couldn't get warm. Then my son Michael came running up the hill after me and when i turned and saw him coming, I realized my self-pitying was selfish and I needed to reach out and I did as he ran by.
Glad to see French Pond Road available on the Kindle at Amazon. The wave of the future is here my friends. Ernest Hebert, venerable dean of New Hampshire writers, has one. See The Valley News, Wednesday march 12 edition.
Without risk there is no faith -- S. Kierkegaard
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