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The more things change...

Change is not so much what we make as it is what happens to us unawares. Not everything that changes is progress but it is inevitable that everything changes. The seasons flow on, all too quickly. We tighten our life-vests, and try to steer clear of the rocks. Along our way down the river, we are grateful for every resting place. Here's ours. Above, as it was in our first August here in 2016, and below, as it is now. We still miss the old cherry tree in the foreground of the first photo. It died the year after we moved here. We've carved a garden out of the hill and planted blueberries on the slope above. One thing hasn't changed. We're still here. It's still home. We'll hold to that reality as long as we can.

Made to order...

I've never much cottoned to the notion of writing fiction according to prompts or deadlines, just as in the kitchen I tend to regard any recipe as a point of departure. That said, I've just completed two short stories with assigned subjects and fairly tight deadlines, just the sort of made-to-order tales I've habitually denigrated as hack jobs.

I admit now without reluctance that I had a lot of fun writing them and I think I came up with a couple of pretty-good stories in the end. Whether an editor will agree remains to be seen. I do like the stories, though, whatever their fate.

Henry's books.