I am not a poem lover, so I don’t make many efforts to read poetry. I do like “How do I love thee, let me count the ways” or “Quoth the raven, never more.” Poet Maya Angelou writes poetry a person can understand. I have just read a book by her, “Letters to My Daughter.” There is some poetry in it. She can take a few words and write something beautiful that has real meaning. Her autobiography shocked me but I’m easily shocked. I know she is admired worldwide.

I am reading Tim Russert’s, “Wisdom of Our Fathers.” It is a follow-up of his book about his father. It is a collection of letters from people who remember their fathers. I think fathers are getting more good publicity now than they used to get. We thought fathers were supposed to “bring home the bacon” and that was about it.

I have been thinking of my father. There were five girls in our family and we got into hair-pulling fights. He would grab the two fighting and hold them face to face until they would kiss each other. Of course, it ended with a bunch of giggles.

Sometimes he took me with him on short business trips. When we passed a store, he would go in and buy some snacks. He would stop the car along the road and we would sit on the running board. He would take out his knife and pry open a tin can of those little fish, put them on a cracker, and we would enjoy a picnic. It was a happy time.

— norma hannaford