“Chicken TV is keeping me sane,” she says, as we soak in that timeless world, mesmerized by their languid pecking and the occasional drop of a leaf.
“Here comes Nick,” I’d say, watching him work his way across the lawn in a slow, rolling gait.
If you had asked me even a year before could I see myself living in the American South, I would have shaken my head.
I met Shirley and Ken Kenneally in 1981 when Cathi invited me to their home for a party. Although the house was set a good way in from the street, I could hear the music from the sidewalk.
The Airport The moment our eyes meet, she breaks gait and leaps ahead of her husband. In seconds my arms are wrapped around her slim shoulders, and the airport buzz disappears, like the hum of the frog orchestra had evaporated a couple of years ago the last time we crept up on the lotus pond […]