I walked with a friend as she walked her dogs a few nights ago. Her “hounds” are big, affectionate, and full of energy. She had them off-leash, so they explored and investigated at a half-urgent leisurely trot at a distance of 20 – 40 yards or so.
At one point, my friend whistled a pattern of short sounds. The dogs looked around.
The weekly mail pickup brought a bountiful harvest of bills, flyers, ads, magazines, and two 9 x 12 envelopes. In one, I knew, were tax documents. In the other…. well, well… from Boston Private Bank and Trust Company….. hmmmm….. I think that’s where John-the-guy-we-call-when-we-refinance-our-mortgages now works….. Ah, shoot, I’ll open it now.
Back in the day, when giants walked the earth and hair covered my head, I was a guitar player and singer. I started, self-taught, at age 12. By the age of 19, I was in college, playing out three to four nights a week, thinking I might go professional.
It was a brilliant, blue-sky-with-yellow-leaves September Saturday afternoon. With other parents, I was standing on a soccer field sideline, watching the town’s high school soccer team scrimmage another team. The talk was loose and easy – how was your summer, do you think the Red Sox will beat the Yankees, what classes is your son in, what are you going to do about college applications. The usual, spiced up by some chatter about the economy and the looming impact of college tuition bills on family finances.
“Did you understand what she just said?” We were taking driving directions from a young woman we’d flagged down on the outskirts of Nassau.
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