I’ll hit 66. Frankly, in my more Romantic days, I thought that I’d be gone at 39, like Dylan Thomas.I had my share at the White Horse, and McSorley’s. But I’m still around.
My affinity for scotch remains, taught to me in the mid-70s by an editor, now dead (in my family, one dies, gets dead…we don’t pass away). I look about the world and there’s so much I know longer understand. I should, however. Without bragging, I’ve a doctorate, albeit it’s in literature; and years with one of the nation’s major newspapers. Yet, as I grow older, there’s less I understand.
More later.
