The rickety old man in church said he had been a model for the statue of the young, dashing Teddy Roosevelt in the park in the 1940’s.
Tonight the moon hung like a baby’s fingernail in the twilight behind the phone company building. It seems like it was huge and full just yesterday.
Our “new” house will be 100 years old next year– built the year the Titanic sank.
The sweet smell of the daphne near the front steps is late this year. I wait all winter for this first sign of Spring, yet in two weeks it will disappear again for a long season.
My mother remembers her grandmother, a civil war widow, saying her husband came home to their farm after the war and told her he “didn’t want to talk about it.”
It seems everything new, either shiney or awful, is in such a rush to become old.
