Why I love Hemingway... in These titles mean nothing.

... when I do.

Here's an example:

*We rode downhill, uphill and around hill. By this time there was only Gigi, my youngest boy, who rides a horse as though his mother had dropped him into the saddle; Taylor Williams, the old Kentucky Colonel who will kill you dead at 900 yards with a borrowed rifle; the Old-timer who you had to keep to windward of, and whose scent was possibly driving the antelope out of the country; and me, on a nice mare with more brains than I had. She was an old rope horse. *

Someone said Grace Kelly looked like every woman thought she would look with the right hair style.

I used to think Paul Newman was the male version of that comment.

And I suppose the E-man is the equivalent for writing. We could all write like this if we just had the right stand-up desk. And the right amount of the right kind of alcohol.

He was a cat man too.

Pic is of the former Stanley/now Stripey Butt on one of his evening walks along the gravel road. Twice he's joined the people with the longer legs (and Gracie) on walks to Gracie's water hole. Half way there he disappears and can't be found on the way home. The next night on the same walk, we hear meows and he reappears.

What he's doing overnight is anyone's guess.