Old School

"Someone . . . reading a book . . . ."

--the voice almost disbelieving, wistful--

Pt. Richmond passerby's observation as I sat at a sidewalk table drinking coffee and reading an old, worn, thick paperback this morning.

This is that book, but I wasn't drinking whiskey then.
Old Friends.

Roots

Mom never had pink hair that I recall, however.

(In case there's any confusion, that's a mermaid-duck on the left. My earliest memory of my mother involves her swimming with me on her shoulder at the Richmond Plunge. I think I was two-and-a-half or three years old.)