I once upon a time tried to use a pick with a guitar. One swing and when the pick hit the guitar the guitar busted into flinders and smithereens. I'll try a shovel the next time.

Copeland. Erin Copeland, Aaron Copeland's wayward granddaughter. THAT was who I was thinking of. She was the one who wrote about Billy the Kid being sweet in an Appalachian spring. She also wrote "Fanfare for the Decidely Uncommon Man" for me after one of our more...interesting...afternoons together. That was in my youth, of course, but now, in my dotage, my hair white with the experiences of a live fully and well led, with a few regrets but too few to mention, knowing full well that my life may have but a few precious hours left to run because I have to go to Boise for the next couple of days, I can pass on what I have learned, the wisdom I have gained by living a goooood life. And I shall, whether you will or no: first, don't try to fill an inside straight and second, never give a sucker...oops, sorry...be kind to everyone, and you will be amply rewarded in the next life and, if you work the scam right, in this one as well.

Ah, Erin Copeland! I can still see your freckles and red braids as we strolled hand in hand in hand that Spring. I can still taste the magic of that first, shy, innocent kiss that so awakened the woman that the girl suddenly became. I still remember you hands clawing at my shirt, still remember trying to explain the scratches on my back to Sister Mary Mary Mary when I returned from that delightful recess so very many years ago. Trying to explain the burning pain I experienced to the doctor. Trying to explain to my mother why I needed all those shots. Trying to find you and get my lunch money back. The Health Department interviews. Regrets, I've had a few, then again, too few to mention. Sigh.