Actor Sterling Hayden was certainly a special case when I first met him one afternoon in 1975 at New York’s Algonquin Hotel restaurant.
Actor Sterling Hayden was certainly a special case when I first met him one afternoon in 1975 at New York’s Algonquin Hotel restaurant.
Okay, my wife and I have been living here full-time for more than three years. I know we can never lose the label of washashore, but is it conceivable we might be at least recognized with a label that advances our status?
It’s not that I’m risk averse — I prefer predictability. I appreciate a pleasant sameness in my daily routine. Blissful in the calm, I can get things done.
It was a dark but not stormy night. Just a merry crispness in the air. It was Saturday, two days after Thanksgiving, around the dinner hour. We were all snug in our post-tryptophan haze in Vineyard Haven when suddenly all hell broke loose outside. Here’s the play-by-play.
I lied. How best to make a clean start for part three of my trilogy on the boxes in our basement? Honestly, I totally miscalculated the number. I thought we had two dozen, but neglected to open another door down there to reveal another roomful of boxes.
After I wrote about the nasty accumulation of boxes in my basement, several readers stopped me on the street, not to chastise me for having so many but to inquire why I had so few. “You only have two dozen boxes? Is your house big enough to absorb everything you moved there?” one said.
