It was an early spring
evening - one where Winter had not yet let go and warmer days were only a
promise. Rain barely a degree or two away from being ice pelted against the big
window looking into the darkness across the street; inside, my Dad had lit the
logs in the fireplace and turned on the radio my mother had gotten him for
Christmas - about a hundred pounds of blonde wood and glass with a fascinating
green "magic eye" and the modest declaration that it was "Magnificent" across
the front. As usual, it was tuned just about in the middle, a hair to the right
of 99. There was the gentle, soft hum, then a rush of static and finally the
opening of what I later learned was Smetana's "The Moldau." I sat down on the
carpet in front of the fireplace, joining our toy fox terrier. We leaned
against each other, gazing into dancing orange and purple flames and journeying
far and away, into the past and into the future. It was an early spring evening
- and anything was possible.
Thanks to everyone for all the years of
memories and thank you too for all your support. It makes a painful situation
much easier.
Bob A. |
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