My friend has not called. I send her poems. She says she likes them, though they tell too much about farm life, too little about me. When I visit her in the summer, she says she hates her job, she’d like for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...
It was just as well, for Fred Gwynn and me and our hopes for the University of Virginia’s Writer-in-Residence Program in 1955, that our memories of Charlottesville did not stretch back more than a few years. Others recalled a signal event...
When we first saw Mary Miles, I will say that our hearts went out to her—you always seem to know, in the very first instant, when a person, particularly a child, is going to mean something special to you. Not that Mary Miles was a child...