Wednesday, March 10, 2021


He would arrive in the summer in a big white station wagon that had rolled 1000 miles. We’d be on the sidewalk, ready to start all over. For me it was always imaginary, for Bert it was talk. Even at 10, he was already talking like a salesman, telling us how things were done in Montana and how Seattle had a lot to learn. He took over whenever he got out of that Chevrolet and all I could do was play along.

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