November 3, 1960 Beloved Brother Alwyn, I thought you might like a photo of my new parish home at Mount St. Bernard. Leicestershire will never hold the fondness of my heart like Caldey Island. I miss the whitewashed buildings, my… Continue Reading
The streets here are steep and narrow, helped along the way by occasional staircases. Ouch! I find it’s hard to walk on cobblestones like this, up a hill that the locals seem to climb so easily. I can see two… Continue Reading
Midwife Sarah Yorke walked along the dirt path next to the cornfield. Her long skirt and petticoat swished around her ankles as she moved, and her feet kicked up dust on the dry path. She clutched her Bible, and its… Continue Reading
The smoke from mortar fire mixed with fog hung low over the trenches. Heinrich trod the planks over the mud, hands wrapped in rags, rifle slung over one shoulder. Night was falling on the broken and burnt field between him… Continue Reading
“Does it always rain this much around here?” Jack whined. “Not all the time,” the old-timer said from his rocking chair under the porch. “Usually just when Yankees come to visit. Don’t think God likes Yankees.” “Well, I don’t like… Continue Reading
I found a sort of skull in the garden. You did? Let me see. I didn’t bring it inside. It’s a skull. Well, what kind of animal is it from? I don’t know. Do I look like a zoologist? All… Continue Reading
It was a cold morning in the old grey city. End of March, with dirty snowbanks on the streets and the sun hiding out somewhere behind the clouds. The three of us took a large black taxi to the hotel… Continue Reading
Terrified, Bodie summons me to his cavernous office. “They want me out,” he says, scrutinizing all those dazzling backstabbers and hangers-on through thick glass panes. “Calm down,” I say. “Calm down? Are you shitting me? You hear what I’m saying?”… Continue Reading
The same year rationing finally came to an end in England, Peter spent a small fortune on a big American refrigerator. While his neighbours coveted television sets, he yearned for food that wasn’t as bland and grey as London on… Continue Reading
Grampa Don hated houseflies. To hear him talk you’d think there weren’t no flies in Chicago, but we visited once and there were flies a’plenty, I assure you. But when Grampa stayed with us he was forever complaining about flies… Continue Reading