In today’s post, I’ll be talking not about my usual range of topics, but about one of the homes I lived in when I was growing up. The one I associate with my childhood.
I love books best of all, but it took me time to realize that a day without reading is like a day without water.
There was a grove of tall green pines and magnolias that lined the streets of Savannah, the waft coming inside the sightseeing bus made me experience a form of time travel; the trees smelled exactly like those I inhaled on the way to school in Montebello, CA.
In 1773, the British Parliament, imposed a tea tax, on the young colony of America, partly as a way to exert control and in a contest of rebellion, in Boston, the indignant colonists disguised themselves as Native Americans and threw the tea into the harbor.
I like the word “dreamer” it conjures up images of a Victorian romantic, clad in silk and lace, who glides instead of walks, whispers instead of talks and is easy on the eyes.