Eastern Connecticut is very different from Western; we're more liverwurst than pâté, more bowling than polo.

I am not a smart man, particularly, but one day, at long last, I stumbled from the dark woods of my own, and my family's, and my country's past, holding in my hands these truths: that love grows from the rich loam of forgiveness; that mongrels make good dogs; that the evidence of God exists in the roundness of things. This much, at least, I've figured out. I know this much is true.

If you risked love, it took you wherever you wanted to go. If you repressed it, you ended up unhappy.

The point is this: that the stream of memory may lead you to the river of understanding. And understanding, in turn, may be a tributary to the river of forgiveness.

I usually learn more from the situations I hate than the ones I love.

I work hard, do my best and send it out to the world hoping that people can relate to it. I accept any reaction and hope they think it is worth reading.

The evidence of God exists in the roundness of things.