Normally I write this column in my office in central Florida. I’ve got one at Gilbert Field in Winter Haven, and another in my home where I do a considerable amount of my writing. It’s just more comfortable there. Let’s face it, there’s no place as inviting or as comfortable as home — except perhaps for our memories.
Thanks to the human brain’s almost staggering capacity to correct for errors, upsets, and ugliness, life is never more beautiful or satisfying than it is when viewed through the prism of our memory.