A friend who recently moved to the Midwest to be with her daughter and toddler grandson sent me an email today. Part of it read,  “… it’s always a joy to see my grandson, as active, bouncy, and as curious as he may be but I’m really quite exhausted and at this point would

People sometimes ask if I’ve thought about publishing a selection of my blogs in book form.  Naturally, I’m flattered, just as I am when they suggest my novels would make great movies. Such notions don’t swell my head. Steven Spielberg, I know, won’t be calling soon. 

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” written by a 22 year-old T. S. Eliot, turns a hundred this year. A brilliant poem, according to those who keep the cannon, though many despaired it was written by a man deemed a fascists, whose title character was named after a furniture