Now I will write about how I met Luke McCrae.
About 59 years ago, I was walking on Wellfleet beach. Not the ocean
beach, but on the Bay side where fisherman pile scallop shells at the
East end. Day off. Low tide.
I remember that I was trying to think of how the summer before a crab had
grabbed Lewis' toe just when he was emphasizing the importance of never
using white pigments in watercolor seascapes. ("The paper. It is the
paper that is the white.")
How ridiculous he had looked hopping up and down in the water!
But instead in my mind the moving pictures were continually showing the
view from the bedroom which Samantha now enjoyed -- while I served
lobster to tourists. Lying to my customers about being there to paint.
How can I explain the urge to raise children in the suburbs which I had
then?