The dryer buzzer went off for the third time tonight. I let it go—again—because wrinkled pajamas never hurt anyone, and I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone, waiting for it to light up.
Eleven minutes to Valentine’s Day. 7,214 miles between us. I’d looked it up. Twice. The house was finally quiet, which with 5 children is less a daily occurrence and more a minor act of God.
Bend OR -- Back in 1968 in Pittsburgh PA we lived in an inner-city area where there was great racial unrest. It was unsafe to walk the streets, both during the day and especially at night.
