I was behaving, just like I promised, but fate intervened.

The last dregs of winter spoiling the taste of everything.

On Decoration Day, while everyone else in town was at the cemetery decorating the graves of our Glorious War Dead, Willie Beaner and me, Robert Burns Hewitt, took Mabel Cramm's bloomers and run them up the flagpole in front of the town hall. That was the beginning of all my troubles.

My writing comes from ideas that make a sound in my heart.

What a gift of grace to be able to take the chaos from within and from it create some semblance of order.

The difference between writing a story and simply relating past events is that a story, in order to be acceptable, must have shape and meaning. It is the old idea that art is the bringing of order out of chaos.

Some folks are natural born kickers. They can always find a way to turn disaster into butter.