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Nearing eighty-seven years of age, these are my memories of home and family in Pitkin during the Great Depression and the early years of World War II. Unable now to see these tangled threads, I reweave each thought. I create my mask. Reality fades. Illusive acts beyond my reach probe the sparkle, follow while threads bind me to the spokes of the windmill, out of control. Peeking through the whirl of wheels, the stars and moon vanish. Winds of blue-gray dust moan. I feel the tightened threads loosen and slowly slip through my fingers. No longer can I search. Each thread unwinds its hold. It's easier than I thought as I dangle the one last thread. My fingers let go, the thread gently slips from the grasp of my motionless hand.

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9781792733956

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