No one in my family did things like lift weights, run a marathon or pitch a tent for a week in the wilderness, go rock-climbing or surfing. Instead, as a child, I was given paper and pencils, scissors and glue, a whole bookshelf I was allowed to work through to my satisfaction. I read of stars and constellations, sea voyages, wars and conquests; fables of armies and heroes who, I'm sure, knew how to rub two stones together to make fire. But I never wondered if they also knew how much water for every cup of rice, against which finger joint to measure the right amount; or if their fathers ever sang Let Me Call You Sweetheart to them as a lullaby.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
