Sit and quiet yourself. Luxuriate in a certain memory and the details will come. Let the images flow. You'll be amazed at what will come out on paper. I'm still learning what it is about the past that I want to write. I don't worry about it. It will emerge. It will insist on being told.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been a minute since my last confession.

When I act tough they listen politely till the spasm passes. They know.

You feel a sense of urgency, especially at my advanced age, when you're staring into the grave.

Your mind is a treasure house that you should stock well and it's the one part of you the world can't interfere with.

Oh, God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt, and after the egg is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh warm bread and a mug of sweet golden tea?

I think I settled on the title before I ever wrote the book.