Talk

Well...

Nothing that has happened in the last two and a half hours has convinced me that Martha isn't a remarkable woman.

We talked.

A lot.

For me, when the venue of conversation can shift radically, but the talk goes on, there's something to be valued there. With Martha, the conversation started in my living room, then moved to my front porch, wandered around my yard, took a long detour as I lay in my back yard, on my back, looking up at an enormous Truman Show-style moon, then moved to my porch swing, back to my living room, then to my bed. Two and a half hours of rambling, intense, delightful and unselfconscious talk about everything and anything.

California seems very close. She does, too.

I like her a lot.