Editor of the Month
 Richard Whittaker
A couple of weeks ago I pressed the street-level doorbell for Ronald Hobbs' apartment. I knew it was Ron's because a little hand-drawn arrow pointed the other way toward the Gypsy palm-reader's doorbell. [more]
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 As a kid in the mid-west I had a radio shack in the wash house, an outbuilding where the women folk did laundry; it was filled with old Atwater-Kents, Philcos, Crosleys and whatever else I found in the junk yards. I'd go there at night and sneak cigarettes. I could bring in WSN in Nashville, Tennessee, XERF Del Rio, Texas and other far off stations.
 Smith was lean and cut a figure, and his walking, as was plain to see, was done for pleasure; he took things in, savored them. I'd see him, with his blaze of white hair, walking up the hill, wooden staff in hand, stopping to gaze into the trees above, or off across the bay, an expression of transport on his face. His walking was always a passage through places of unexpected beauty and surprise.
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