A Writer’s Life

         I meet up with our Chinese physical therapist outside Mrs. Green’s where rustic tables are set up for coffee and snacks.  She says, “I often want to ask what you do.  I think because you are Scottish American you play golf.”  I reply, “I would like to play golf but I do not know how.  When I was looking to buy a townhouse in Pawling near the golf course, I thought I might learn.  That is if it is true that it is never too late.”

         I could tell her that I spend a lot of time in prayer but it often comes out as pious or self-righteous, perhaps downright unbelievable so I say I walk in the woods and I write.  “What you write?  she asks with great interest.  So I tell her I am writing about a wounded man in need of healing.  he is so much in denial though that he would never know that.”  She laughs charmingly.  “He comes here, to Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, where people are bewitched according to Washington Irving.” I add.

         “Yes.  The story.  The Horseman.  Even here the parking machines have Horseman with no head.” 


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