If I had more than one plumber. I wouldn't have so many fears.
If the odor of poo wasn't repugnant. We'd probably be really sick.
Sorry, I have to go. Local wild girls are waiting to talk to me.
I love you, you are so big. Wayne.

This message is from "Wayne," a pseudonymed fan who loves me, who praises all things in special Nancy's World (it was a much longer message but some things are not made to be shared with any ol' tom dick or harry).
Spent the better part of today at a summer camp where I photographed the happy, sun burnt population of a camp out in the sticks. Parked my car on a steep hill and was most pleased to find it still there at day's end, and not in nearby lake.
Dig the kid world where conversation is free & easy & surreal in jumping from thing to subject thing. Before the adult filter of propriety gets strapped on.
Camp assistant director, TO Mike, drove me about in his golf cart and I had a sudden revelation about those who comandeer golf carts: theirs is a sadistic mission - to throw, like a bronco with a bur under its saddle, their rider, like a heap of old newspapers out of their unstructured, airbagless vehicle. We took turns, climbed hills, careened down hills, flowed under low cherry trees, sought out (apparently) ruts with such reckless abandon. Children's toes and arms and lives were mere vehicular inconveniences for sunglassed and hard-assed Mike.
One time a famous artist took me through a woods on his golf cart at a speed I thought impossible for that genre of vehicle. His golf cart had a high-pitched horn which he used liberally - he would send mid-woods pedestrians scattering as he approached them shouting 'look out!!!' as I held on, face the color of birch bark (like today at some points).