Underneath the redwood tree

Amending what I said yesterday about Portland,  thinking of the roll big rivers play and the way the people who live here have a way of seeming to be both hard working and of having other things than work to do.

At an age where I'm close to having the body I'll end up with, I like to sit under trees for a few minutes every day and be grateful for this life, without complaint or worry, and enjoy my penchant for not finishing things, seeing that it's in my best interest.

Today I walked through Lone Fir Cemetery, on 26th and Morrison, a real old-fashioned graveyard. I watched a squirrel hop up on the gravestone of Christina Pearson (1872-1908). Then I sat under a tree for a little while before it started to rain.

When I'm in Portland I'm almost always somewhere I've never been before. There are far more times that I don't know where I am than times that I know. Almost better not to know, to just laugh.

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