If only she could know all the little ways that I make her life easier. Like how I wait in my car until her newspaper is delivered very early every morning. I pick it up out of her yard and toss it onto her porch so she won’t have to walk in the wet grass. She might get her slippers damp. If the yardman would just mow it shorter, it wouldn’t stay so soggy. One time the newspaper guy skipped her house, so I took a paper from a neighbor’s yard and put it on her porch. She deserved it more than they did.
About William W. Walton
William Walton was raised on a ranch in the Texas Hill Country by feral pigs, his rougher edges honed at Yale. A dissolute youth, he tried to become a deeper, more sensitive person, but that was hopeless. Instead, he commited himself to exploring the full richness of his natural superficiality. Except for his work with troubled adolescents, with abandoned animals, voyaging under sail, and his writing, he has rarely deviated from that path. William writes because he has to, and he hopes that his stories leave a bigger, more positive footprint on this earth than he has. He resides in Corpus Christi, Texas, with his wife Sharon, a native of Buffalo, N.Y.