More than twenty-five years ago, when my mother was still living, I had the idea to share our travels in somewhat detailed letters so she could experience what we saw, smelled, felt, tasted and learned. She enjoyed the letters, written as stories -- epistles -- but after her death I felt I had no audience, no recipient, who might relish reading what we had done. The last epistle I wrote, about a trip to Seattle, was in perhaps 2004 and, except for a few friends, went unshared. It seems a shame to let a good practice fall away, so when Mark asked that I try again, I agreed. My mother will not be reading this, but she is with me always and I think she would be very happy and, I hope, entertained. The morning was
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