Is it ok to talk about Glenn's (Honey's) gig? We're to be at (Hey, be at is beat) a church which has been hired for five family's NY eve party. He will be playing jazz drums. He has never played with brushes, swears brushes are for weak drummers. (John Bonham never used brushes) I love life transitions. Aren't they cool? I'll never..... It's a hard life lesson. Hey, good thought for tomorrow, Allen.

I met a striking woman Saturday. There was a garage sale and as I walked in, I was amazed at the mess. How could anyone live like this? The walls had mildew, and there was a large amount of trash everywhere. But..there was a lot of very, very old antiques in there. A life. I found some great books I wanted to buy. One was King Soloman's Ring by Konrad Lorenez that I read years ago and recently tried to buy and was told was out of print. As I went out to pay for the books I over heard the women selling talking about the owner of the house with tears in her eyes. After the conversation was over I asked her if this was her mother's house. She said no, but the woman who owned the house was like her mother. I was very touched by the woman selling and wanted to know more about the poor woman who owned the house. I gave her my card and told her it wasn't just morbid curiosity, but I'd like to know more about the owner. I asked her to call when she felt like talking. Then was not the time.

When I got out to the car, I opened one of the books. Edna St Vincent Millay. 1927. There was a small flyer at one of the poems that said the book had been reprinted by special arrangement with the author. The poem is one I would have chosen as one of my favorites.

When the Year Grows Old

I cannot but remember when the year grows old--

October--November-- How she disliked the cold !

She used to watch the swallows go down across the sky,

And turn from the window with a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves were brittle on the ground,

And the wind in the chimney made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her that I wish I could forget--

The look of a scared thing sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall the soft spitting snow!

And beautiful the bare boughs, rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire, and the warmth of fur,

And the the boiling of the kettle were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember when the year grows old--

October--November-- How she disliked the cold!

**********************************************************I wish I had met the lady that marked that poem. I think I would have loved her and we would have been good friends. I hope her (daughter) calls, because she never saw this marked place in this book and I would love to share it with her.

Just a thought.

Love, annap