It is anticipation and recollection that fill the heart—never the sensation of the moment.
My dearest Pudding pie" I read aloud. "Yes, my little turnip?" "Hilarious," I muttered. "If you ever call me anything of the sort again we shall have words.
It's hard to think of the divide where I grew up as a watershed. The creeks are dry most of the year, rainfall is undependable at best, and folks in one river system are always trying to steal water from another.
