In my earliest memories, I am sick, struggling for breath on Mom’s lap as she strokes me gently and sings Brahms’ Lullaby in her clear soprano voice.
We lived in England then, the first of Dad’s military assignments I can remember. My memories of Utah are more vivid. In the dry mountain air, my asthma faded, and I started playing baseball in our back yard with brothers or friends or by myself (providing my own radio play-by-play). (more…)
The Buttry Diary 