If I could only find the card
Ernest Borgnine died yesterday. This is mostly what I remember of him:
It's not hard to imagine how any one of the others I've listed might have led to letdown in this girl's eager heart. Still, Ernest Borgnine failing me at the Rose Parade seems like such an unlikely and specific stand-in for disappointment that it makes me a little itchy, not knowing what that's all about. I could squander away my day, of course, and do some more googling. Or set it aside and accept the tangled-coat-hanger mess of my memory. Or I could just fill the gap by making up another story altogether. Isn't that, really, what a writer's supposed to do?
Nancy Carol Moody
I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.