I’m finding it tough near the end of 2020 to say happy holidays with nearly 327,000 Americans dead from coronavirus, nearly 2 million dead worldwide, people separated from their families, nurses and doctors overwhelmed and exhausted in their hospitals, photos of cars lined up for food giveaways in L.A. and other American cities and U.S. …
I woke up knowing it was a special day. First I thought winter solstice but, no, three days too early. Then I looked up at the first light on the cold mountain and remembered your birthday. I think this had something to do with memories of frigid campsites first thing in the morning. Think Beatty’s …
I remembered this photograph of my grandmother, Ethel Robertson, while thinking of COVID-era hard times. She was born in 1905 and died in 1997, meaning she lived through, among other things, World War I, the flu pandemic of 1918, the Great Depression and World War II. She had her first child, Marcella Jean, in 1923 …
We were celebrating your 60th birthday with this 1989 hike in Colorado, but the photos will do for Father’s Day. My late father, Bob Robertson, 1929-1995.
