About 1940, the country was beginning to emerge from the Depression, and the tall poles bearing electric wires were marching deeper into the rural areas of the country.
Dora turned to me and said, "I can't walk through our living room anymore without stepping on stacks of papers." I was immediately concerned about my friend's safety.
Henry Kissinger, Jerry Orbach, County Kerry, capers. This is my mantra to assure myself that I'm not afflicted with "the ol' timers." There's one more, but I can't remember what it is.
My bucket list seems more like a sand pail. A friend sent a broadcast e-mail of his summer in a wisteria-draped villetta he rented in Tuscany from which he pedals out for two-day bike rides in the countryside. That's a bucket.