Stories. [1] Downtown 1946.A sister and brother walking downtown, shops and shows and trolleys; smells of dimestore popcorn, caramel apples, warm nuts, candies, lunch counters, blue plate specials. Sheltered beneath the overhangs and awnings, they, sister and brother cling, walking cautiously, as if to touch a stranger might bruise and hurt; he, weak, sickly, leans on her, she supports him, with body, both arms, both hands. He's in a cheap pair of dark gabardines, a white starched cotton shirt stained here and there with rust; she's in a stiff dark dirty skirt, white blouse, funny little hat; both down at the heel. Handsome though, but for the fear apparent on their face, the fear of touching, being touched, of being seen so pained, so poor; of not being seen at all. 2006 July 14. [2] South on LA 1.Riding along on Old Highway One, cotton left and right; everything was normal, I thought, the way it was supposed to be, would be forever. Passing quickly by, paying no mind to the cotton on either side. Then it hit me, and I yelled so loud, I scared myself. Embarrassed, I said, Can we stop, so I can take a picture? Why not? my father said, why not? I got down from the dark blue Cadillac, stepped down to the ground, took my shot and now, I look at it, a field full of men, dressed in gray and white and brown, and know myself to be as old, as yellowed as the cotton seems in that photo of a time so long ago. 2008 June 2. [3] The War Effort. I was walking to school. I think it was in '42. I had gathered some tin foil for the war, "the war effort," it was called. Arriving, I didn't know where to put it, where it went. I thought, "all my effort and all my toil, for nothing." And so it happened, so it went. From war to war. 2011 November 21. [4] A Christmas Past. Preparing for Christmas, we can't help remembering Christmases past, many tender and touching memories. I remember the year Santa brought a bike; it was during WWII. Bikes were scarce then, hard to come by because the metal and rubber were needed for the war effort. Santa, it turned out, was my mother. She found a 24", used, re-painted it herself, made it shine as though brand new. The bike is gone now. So is my mother. The bike, a thing, is a precious memory, not for itself, but because of her. Each day of Christmas Lent, if I remember those loved ones passed on, though gone, rekindle my appreciation for them, I might be ready for Christmas Day when it comes, myself adorned with the fairest ornament of all: Thanksgiving. 2014 November 18[5] Here and NowOutside: light rain, almost a mist I almost missed; birds, taking their noon lunch; Bubba and his faithful companion, Charlie, both have learned to welcome all kinds of weather; a now-stripped-bare-but far-from-barren fig tree, late the home of little birds; a gradually retreating grape-vine; and trees of course, more beloved than ever since the recent tornado swept through, wrecking many of that tribe in the Garden District where God was pleased to plant them (and us), though our trees withstood; and, marvel, the bush of sweet peach roses, long ago planted by Mrs Haifa Mansour, gave us after that great tempest the gift of yet another timid rose of the peach persuasion. Inside: the furniture of course; books, lots of them; notebooks holding current projects; music playing softly; and then there's my mentor, Linus, perhaps nearly as wise as his namesake, the second bishop of Rome, before he was called a Pope; and finally me, the observer, the stand-byer, whether innocent or not, that is for someone else to decide. 2014 December 11[6] Our LivesOur lives - particles and waves. The observer might see only contradiction. We don't see. We feel. Sense, with more or less clarity, the oneness, the transitions, some smooth, others not, from the bits and the fragments to the glow and the flow. We are both. Because we too are light. Images, however remote, of The Light. 2016 July 12