It was one of those soggy Saturdays and, as I stepped out of my vehicle in the city parking garage, a huge drip from a crack in the ceiling hit my forehead. I thought this day would have been better suited for curling up with one of my books instead of talking about them.
I was at the dinner table with my new Fargo, North Dakota friend and her family, when I looked around at their curious faces. . .They were all characters from my friend’s memoir, So Many Africas, and it was like going back stage on a film set and interviewing the cast.
The 86 year old paused when I asked how many books he had written. He looked down at first, then up toward the ceiling as if retrieving that bit of information. Then, with a voice laden with his native Alabama, he answered, “I think it’s 34.”
A series of urgent questions on a late August weekend in 2005 determined the fate of a quarter of a million pets in America. . . . For the third time in six weeks, residents had to ask, “Do we go? Do we stay? What are our options?” Every pet’s life depended on how their people answered.
Luke leaned over and whispered, “You get the medal, not me, OK?”
We had been sitting at a banquet table for about two hours, watching as nervous book authors waited for their category to be called and to learn if they’d won an award…
She was much taller than I expected. With the thinness of an athlete, a runner’s build. But she still had the freckles I remembered when I first started writing about her, and that same porcelain-doll skin. I also recognized that serious, almost introspective look that surfaced whenever she put her hands on Rikki.