By Walt Whitman
When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one, when I am dead and gone, write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life;
Why, even I myself, I often think, know little or nothing of my real life;
Only a few hints—a few diffused, faint clues and indirections,
I seek, for my own use, to trace out here.)
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We had another cool, clear, gorgeous day on Sunday, when we all slept late but not too late because the clocks went back. Maddy had to work and Jeremy had class activities, so Alice and Avery came to Great Falls because I had told the latter that it was a great place to find Pokemon. (Especially now that Pokestops no longer work while one is a passenger in a car, parks are pretty necessary for anyone still playing the game.) The leaves are gorgeous there, though it was very crowded with people wanting to enjoy the autumn weather, though the water was low.
We stopped at Starbucks for coffee and hot chocolate on the way home from Great Falls and ran into Jaymi, whom I've known since elementary school, plus her family and parents (her dad and mine have played tennis together for decades). Then Alice and Avery went home, Paul and I had leftovers for dinner, and we watched Once Upon a Time (*snore*) and Westworld (gripping) before getting niece. Network TV was off its timing because of football (yay Ravens win!) so although we missed Madam Secretary, we did catch Elementary (not my favorite season).
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