Life as a Normal Rockwell Painting
A December Sunday Morning at the Fletcher HQ: it’s snowing outside, the cat’s curled up in front of the log fire, the baby is enjoying his new-found ability to crawl, stuffing anything not nailed down into his mouth, the ten-year old is slowly “cleaning his room” by playing with everything he’s meant to be putting away , the wife is folding the laundry and I’m shortly off to get the Christmas tree. Those who feel this Normal Rockwell picture of domesticity does not match the profile of the author they may have encountered over the years, in rather different environments, may be comforted by the fact that I just returned from pulling two NYC 5 a.m.’ers in a row. Some things don’t change. And some things do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to bring in more logs.