My grandfather was a duck trapper
He could do it with just dragnets and ropes
My grandmother could sew new dresses out of old cloth
I don’t know if they had any dreams or hopes

I had ’em once though, I suppose, to go along
With all the ring-dancin’ Christmas carols on all of the Christmas eves
I left all my dreams and hopes
Buried under tobacco leaves

All this waiting.
Waiting for the rain to
stop. Waiting in traffic.
Waiting for the bill.
Waiting at the airport
for an old friend.
Waiting to depart.
Then,
there’s the big waiting:
waiting to grow up. Waiting
for love. Waiting to show your
your parents that when you
have kids you’ll be different.
Waiting to retire. Waiting for
death.
Why do we think waiting
is the antithesis of life
when it is almost
all of it?

Both my parents had a great influence on me. I never heard my father use a profane or even a slang word. I always respected him because of his complete integrity. In his business dealings his handshake was like a contract. He was as good as his word. Of all the people I have ever known, my mother had the greatest influence on me.

That first pregnancy is a long sea journey to a country where you don’t know the language, where land is in sight for such a long time that after a while it’s just the horizon – and then one day birds wheel over that dark shape and it’s suddenly close, and all you can do is hope like hell that you’ve had the right shots.

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