It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape.

But the trees seemed to know me. They whispered among themselves and beckoned me nearer. And looking around, I noticed the other small trees and wild plants and grasses had sprung up under the protection of the trees we had placed there. The trees had multiplied! They were moving. In one small corner of the world, Grandfather's dream was coming true and the trees were moving again.

When I write I just keep a waste paper basket handy in case I am experiencing a block.

I don't travel so much now, I get tired

I was nostalgic even as a young man. Preferred listening to Opera not Bing Crossby.

The more you write, the better you will write! So - keep at it!

and when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.