Happy birthday, Bill!


When Jan and I first moved to New England she decided she wanted to go and put a rose on Henry James’ grave. I went along taking my own rose for William James. (As a special bonus, when we arrived at the James family gravesite in the Cambridge graveyard, we discovered only a few feet away the marker for the (perhaps last) great Unitarian Universalist theologian James Luther Adams)

They said of the James boys that one wrote like a novelist and the other like a psychologist.

The one who wrote like a novelist was born on this day in 1842.

We owe him much.

May his grave be strewn with roses…

Hot Dogs! Hot Dogs! And from there on, Mickey Mouse Never Shuts Up...
Happy birthday, James Bond! Hmm. I Mean Happy Birthday, Ian Fleming!
Benny Turns One Hundred, Seven, and Remains as Cool as Ever
Joan Goes to the Stake

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