Charity for the Afghan Boy

Charity for the Afghan Boy

I was back in the Afghan town walking through dusty streets, brown dirt roads lined with twelve foot high dirty white daubed walls. The roads were wide enough for two cars but they were deserted except for street urchins in dirty white jellabahs, boys with dusty black hair who wanted to be your guide.

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Coqui Frog Salad

Coqui Frog Salad

I am sitting in a formal park in Central America with Original Anne and there is a white stone terrace up above us attached to the main house. It stretches from one end to the other. And I am describing to her that the sound is from a coqui, a little frog that makes a sound like “co-koo” but clipped, almost like the alarm from an iPhone.

“I know that,” she emphasizes as we walk through the park.

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