July is the axis upon which my life has always turned.

Was I really an expat or was I an immigrant . . .?

Like country singer Loretta Lynn, my mother was “born a coal miner’s daughter.” 

From the start of our joint travels, the declaration “I could live here,” was the highest accolade attributable to a new venue.

I have no need for speed, heights, or risky business…

Each year as Valentine’s Day approaches, I think of my father.   

I realized—surprisingly for the first time—that I could hear the current of the river long before it was visible.  

We have been fortunate to sit ringside at this spectacular show of possibility.

It is the people picked up along the way – not the accomplishments – that remain most treasured.

Like Bono, I’ve contemplated the meaning of street names, from both a literal and a figurative perspective. 

It was a day just like today, a September gem.

The professor cheerfully suggested that although it would be “challenging” I should join the “third group” class.

A sudden wave of linguistic bravery urged me off the sidewalk and toward two of the men.

We wonder how different life would have been.

My father was a complicated man.

We wedged our car into a safe spot and began wandering on foot.

I was struck by the thought: what if I never came back, never saw these peaks or valleys again?

À La Mode isn’t apple pie with ice-cream anymore.

I have always been drawn to the sea.

A great advantage of retiring in the southwest of France is the ease of travel to other European locations.