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August 10, 2006


Your writing slays me, Beth. Too wonderful.

If you get a chance, read John Berger's unexpected encounter with his late mother in Lisbon. It's in his most recent book "Here is Where We Meet."

Your lightness of touch in this piece very much reminds me of his.

Thanks so much, Teju. I bow in your direction.

What a glorious slice of life. I feel I was right there with you.

A lovely post, very affecting. You have a gift for bringing elderly people to life.

Yes, a really beautiful portrayal of an admirably long-lived lady, Beth.

After reading today's headlines, this story was a wonderful gift, bringing me back to a sense of peace and goodness that the world still offers.

A beautiful portrait of a place, too, Beth, a place full of meaning and connection and the moon. We saw that moon too, but it rose yellow, almost red, through the smoke of grass fires. Though you don't mention what it smelled like, sitting there, I can smell it through your description, green and fresh and Vermont, a scent I start craving almost ravenously round about this time of year in California's Central Valley...

You wrote so beautiful, I had to read twice to absorb all those heavenly arranged words.

A wonderful confluence of place & people. Such times are to be treasured. And may we all hope for such grace & dignity as we nudge up to the centenary!

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.

Wondeful to know the greatness threads through. Thank you for this.

Wow. What a beautiful day and evening, and very nicely described. I sometimes wish I knew more old people. There's something really special about someone who has lived such a gracious life and continues to do so.

Ai, Beth. I hardly know what to say at these generous slabs of grace. Your words weave those otherwise-passing events into a lasting holy richness and I'm so, so grateful for your willingness to share. Thank you.

A particular feeling rose up in me as I read this. Thank you.

It occurs to me, Beth, that what you have done is to create a portrait of the evening. What you have written conjurs the scene just as a series of photos might also have done. As one reads it, what imprints the mind is a succession of images. Is that what good discursive writing is supposed to do?

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Who was Cassandra?

  • In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well, you know what happened.