It turned out I’d been wasting a lot of good pear, but that stopped under Mrs. Johnson’s tutelage.

The rent was suspiciously cheap, but the reviews were all good except to say that the house was on a road with stairs. There is a good reason for this: the town predates wheels.

Somewhere near the middle of our vacation, usually just after we’d reached our destination, my birthday would arrive.

My parents, who buy little tiny blocks of cheese which they cut into little tiny slices and serve on little tiny crackers at precisely five o’clock every evening, were understandably taken aback by the arrival of twenty pounds of cheese.

I imagined I was sort of a golden retriever mix. I was a cool dog, a chill dog. I am actually nothing at all like this.

I used to take pride in traveling light. I fit all my clothes and everything I needed in a small backpack or a carry-on suitcase and hit the road with little idea of where I was going. Then I met Peter.

We might be starting from scratch, but we’ve got a head start. We might be trying something new, but we get credit for time served.

The farmhouse is where I thought I’d grow old. I planted a lot of trees. I had a garden. I painted every wall, inside and out. I thought there was a strong likelihood I’d die in that house. Now I’ve put it up for sale.

I have no cowboy credentials. So, when Bob suggested I perform with a cowboy singer, I was more than skeptical—I thought it was a dumb idea.

The funeral home had been converted into an Airbnb. It was on our way—and suspiciously cheap.