I received this lovely book, which I am reading like a book of poems, from my lovely cousin, Bells, with the following note (reprinted with her permission, in case you ever want to send me anything...I'll check before I quote you) :
"Ben Conley, the original owner of this book, grew through a hardscrabble childhood into a Methodist minister and later psychologist, therapist and author. But most of all he was an eternal hippie in the best sense of the word. He met everyone fully expecting that he would love them. He was environmentally conscious and into natural health long before those concepts were well received. He tore out the pristine lawn of his river house and created a wild jungle of a garden with secret rooms and constant surprises. He gathered rocks he loved and formed meandering paths. He looked a bit like Warren Beatty at his peak and had that same quiet sexiness. He adored, and was adored by his wife, my friend. He died last November as he would have wished. He just lay down in his garden and was gone. So take these songs and sing a round to Ben."
Am I not a lucky person, to have such individuals in my family? And they wonder where I get my writing skills...it's in the blood, I tell you.
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