I stared at the computer screen, the recipe for blueberry cobbler staring back at me as my daughter’s voice, plaintive as a puppy’s whine, pleaded, “Please, Mom, why can’t I go?

There is a ridge, almost a small cliff, made where the Atlantic bites into the sand. The waves have created a vertical face, a drop dividing the beach in two.

As a child, my mother used to tell me bedtime stories to help me fall asleep. With a glass of scotch resting on my bedspread, she would recount tales of her childhood in Kamsack, Saskatchewan.

In Mexico there are always sounds to announce one thing or another. I especially like the knife sharpeners whistle…..

A long, low fluting whistle