There is almost nothing in this world I like more than fresh corn on a summer evening. I could eat a bushel of it, I think.

In the lobby of the local art theater, how else to pass the time?

First one dog got sick, then the other dog got sick, then we covered the carpet with a big blue tarp.

We missed the small-town parade but made the cookout.

Evening sun hits the wall. Which needs a little dusting, I guess.

I’m trying to read these letters my father sent home from Vietnam, again. I tried two years ago and just … couldn’t. It’s still hard but, today, I needed to.

It’s been 33 years, still think of him daily. I used to have so many questions, things I still needed him to teach me. Maybe by now I’d have some things to offer back.

One of these is genuine, the others are reproductions.