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  • Carlos Ruiz Zafon: The Shadow of the Wind (*****)
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  • Leo Buscaglia, Ph.D.: The Fall of Freddie the Leaf-A Story of Life for All Ages (*****)
  • Richard Bach: Illusions-The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah (*****)
  • Thad Carhart: The Piano Shop on the Left Bank-Discovering a Forgotten Passion in a Paris Atelier (*****)
  • Rick Jarow: Creating the Work You Love (*****)


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« Walking, Walking, Walking-The First Step | Main | Trumpet Plans and Stories »

May 21, 2016


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Laury Bourgeois

Mon Dieu-"good cheer and compassionate intelligence"-I do love that description! And, that day is forever etched in my mind/heart/soul. I don't remember the poem, but remember the day well! Do you remember that you and Pat stood on those cliffs and mooned the world...I didn't participate, but you guys were so funny and so excited, if not just a tiny bit competitive in front of me! Why don't YOU write a book about that journey that you and Ronnie took? Thanks for the recommendation. I've thought about you too-some of my overalls friends are thinking about walking from Denmark to Montaillou France...I am thinking of joining them at some point along the way next year when I'm back in Cadrieu full time. I've got the shoes-I've got the desire and the excitement and I think I'm ready to go for a much shorter piece of their walk-maybe Toulouse or south of there. Hmmm, I was thinking, maybe your line about the sun throbbing should be on your "asses" not "faces"!-I want to write more and fill you in a bit more, but I'll have to send an email. Great to hear from you-thanks for all this fun-Love, Laury

Jeffrey May

Was thinking about you this morning... That sense of loss is palatable for me as well; I've lost count of family, friends, clients who became friends, and so on...

I'm reading "Mississippi Solo" by Eddie Harris... If you haven't read it already, I recommend you do so. A black man with no canoeing experience canoes from the source of the Mississippi to New Orleans, set I think in the early eighties.

This old 1975 poem was inspired as I recall by us on the river, you and me and that sociology professor, who was probably enamored by your good cheer and compassionate intelligence that I often took for granted.

We Got Drunk on Our Bluffs

We got drunk on our bluffs
and flew out over the flood high
laughing up a goddamn storm

as towboats thrust the barges
and down river

and the sun on our faces
burning pleasantly.

(April 1975)

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