Sitting at this modest oak butcher block dinning room table, I silently thank our friends for kindly allowed us to use their Tahoe Tavern town home over Father's Day weekend. The cool azure blue sparkling lake waters shimmer quietly off the rear grassy shoreline. After stumbling through numerous frustrating attempts at disabling the computer glitch that blocked me from starting a new blog, I am ecstatic at finally being able to start cranking out some thoughts.
Killed by bandits during the 1850 California Gold Rush, the precious metal they stole is now just a past life recall. Sitting here, in the high Sierras, the story of Mark Trafton Howe is slightly closer as it wafts away as a distant memory. The letters Mark wrote home are safely filed away in our San Mateo home. I wonder at the adventuresome spirit that lead him from the Howe clan's Bangor, Maine home across the Panama Isthmus to California. He struck it rich, found a beautiful young lady to marry, and then died while traveling in the forested highlands by some unsavory characters.
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