Good things come from Asheville. This is an accepted fact amongst my family and friends, a clan and a collection respectively self-assured of their ability recognize greatness. Thus I should not be surprised that the encouragement to blog again came from a trip back to the mountains.

The writing in this blog will be of varying quality, but what is indubitably good is the fact that I am writing again. What is good is the act of trying to tell a story once more, and of stepping out of my math-infused brain to toss words up in the air and watch them spin down like maple seeds. Whirligigs, we called them when we would collect shirtfrontfulls and throw them from the arched brick veranda above St. Lawrence’s back stairs. You could never predict how they would fall. You just had to let them go and watch.

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