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Hot fudge

A page from my first book, CARS & other poems. Long-lost Sam on the left, & me age 19, dressed for a hippie wedding.
When I was an 18-year-old hitchhiker, I had a mission: to find the best hot fudge sundae in the world (really, the Midwest). I ran out of appetite pretty early on, having never really been a collector, but not before the prize went to a diner on the outskirts of Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

It was good to have a goal.

Some things were easier then. For example, no one had invented multitasking.

Some things were harder. At least now I no longer have to decide whether to keep studying Sanskrit (nope), become a cobbler (good heavens, not anymore), break up with so-and-so (yes! what was I thinking? yes!).

I get to keep tons of memories (& pounds from all those hot fudge sundaes) but they weighs less than the brooding quandariness of my early adulthood.

So happy on a sunny Sunday.
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