Alien

Of course it's vaguely possible I'm an alien, review the evidence, I came from nowhere, after all. Being a Navy Brat could serve as a cover story. My first memory is rain on a Quonset Hut, which, I'm told, was when I was three, on a base in Maryland. I started reading when I was very young, traded all of my baseball cards for a complete set of Classics Illustrated, bugged my parents to buy a set of encyclopedias, and I'd always retire to my room when there were things going on that I didn't want to participate in. I can read anywhere. Writing, for me, requires quiet and solitude, but I can read in a crowded subway. I've developed methods by which I can read even when doing other things. The Risotto Reading Device, for instance, is not something that I've ever seen anyone else use. It's essentially one of those harmonica holders with some extensions. And the book-rock that I keep at the island, an almost perfect sandstone triangle, three inches on the faces, one inch thick, that serves to free up both of my hands. B uses an old tool, a swage, I think they're called. Left to our own devices. Which is certainly true. When you're miles from a hardware store, mid-winter, an old piece of shoe makes a fine hinge. Herbert, at The Playhouse, was one of the greatest problem-solvers of all time; he taught generations of us to visualize exactly what the problem was and to build a solution accordingly. The influence he had, on some of the best minds I know, is staggering. I was gratified then, as you might imagine, to give a talk on anything I wanted to talk about, for the Nature Club. I'll probably talk about oak trees and acorns; though I could talk about chicory, or frogs, the fox, or morels announcing the spring, or ten thousand other things. Linda said I was deft, and it's true, I can talk about anything; it's all about patterns: listen to Bach.