Ursula Le Guin at Her Best

Le Guin certainly could write.

Pilgrim on a Long, Long Journey

I love the beauty, the depth and the truth in the following:

“My mother died at eighty-three, of cancer, in pain, her spleen enlarged so that her body was misshapen. Is that the person I see when I think of her? Sometimes. I wish it were not. It is a true image, yet it blurs, it clouds, a truer image. It is one memory among fifty years of memories of my mother. It is the last in time. Beneath it, behind it is a deeper, complex, ever-changing image, made from imagination, hearsay, photographs, memories. I see a little red-haired child in the mountains of Colorado, a sad-faced, delicate college girl, a kind, smiling young mother, a brilliantly intellectual woman, a peerless flirt, a serious artist, a splendid cook—I see her rocking, weeding, writing, laughing — I see the turquoise bracelets on her delicate, freckled arm — I see, for a…

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Some Places Have a Long Life in our Family Histories

That which lingers…

Pilgrim on a Long, Long Journey

I first saw the Ohio State Buckeyes football tean at seven in Columbus, Ohio State (OSU) v ?. I have rooted for them for 68 years since I saw them that Saturday with my dad.

My late father, as a Boy Scout, ushered in 1921 at the stadium’s opening. My late mother in law, her father and uncle all attended OSU.

In 1962 I spent most of the summer in Stradley Hall at OSU. I was a high schooler studying communicative arts. It was a delightful summer debating and meeting new friends from all over the US.

One of my last memories of Dad as he drifted into Alzheimer’s in 1994 was trying to watch the Buckeyes play on the screen with him in his hospital room. May he rest in peace.

Sometimes a place has meaning beyond its bricks and mortar.

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