Time marches on . . .
11/17, Sunday. Must be the full moon; all night I dreamed of Quanah Parker.
11/18, Monday. Koan for the week: The wise don’t strive to arrive.
11/19, Tuesday. There’s something satisfying about pushing a big cart through the aisles at Costco and filling it up while wondering at what other people are buying—like that huge, mouth-watering pecan pie I saw going by in another cart.
11/20, Wednesday. Everybody needs coffee once a month with an old college friend who rides a bright red Vespa, votes Socialist, and can explain the difference between high-, broad-, and low-church Episcopalians.
11/21, Thursday. The vagaries of Coachella Valley weather: we dress warm for an overcast morning walk with the dog, and 20 minutes from home the sun comes out, hot as ever.
11/22, Friday. In the margins of old maps, you can sometimes find a fierce face with wild hair and cheeks puffed out, blowing gusts of wind over land and sea—he’s out there today.
11/23, Saturday. The stormy weekend, with wind and spitting rain, is a replay of 50 years ago as the chapel bell tolled under a leaden sky at the university in Valparaiso, Indiana, and the TV was an endless recitation of assassination.
Image credit: Ron Scheer
Coming up: Lawyers in frontier fiction