gift

Steve was a writer as I had known working writers to be. His house was full of books and artifacts from his life, pictures done for him by his favorite illustrator. He had a tendency to talk, endlessly, and latch on to the one thing you said he knew enogh about to keep talking. Some mix of well educated middle class wrapped up in an unpretentious shell. He had been a nice enough guy that I decided to read his book. “This is his only autobiographical piece,” CM told me. “All of his other books are about hunting.” I read the introduction, even though it’s something I rarely do.

East of Amarillo, it’s all suburbs.

I started to laugh and laugh until I was on the verge of crying. I’d given that book to Alec years ago.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s