Gingko trees under the entrance to the Bay Bridge Photo by Diana McKennett
Title of Story
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Scrambled Eggs
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Webmaster's Note 4-9-20; this color content box was moved from an I 8 lit piece to this template page using these menu commands
1. Copy to another page 2. Move within the page These steps worked. “Are you doing anything?” His low voice, accompanied by the rumble of breaking surf, gives him away. I picture my brother Ray, two years my junior, in front of the rented bungalow he shares with his third wife. Buds in his ears, he zigzags along the shore. His dog, Thor, weaves across his path, in and out with the waves. Except for his salty silver hair and rugged complexion, leathered by forty years of surfing, Ray looks remarkably the same as the lithe boy I remember racing across the playground with a bevy of little girls in pursuit. At twenty, Ray left home and headed for the beach. Other than a sojourn to Davenport, Iowa to study chiropractic at Palmer College, he’s rarely strayed from his Monterey Bay surf mecca, where the sun rises and sets over the sea. He earns a spartan living from his holistic healthcare practice, with plenty of time left for riding the waves. “Oh!” I pause to calm my voice. “I suppose I always thought of myself as the egg.” |
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