With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Jill Wolfson’s first fiction publication was in The Sun decades ago. The framed acceptance letter still sits on her desk in Santa Cruz, California. She has since produced novels, short stories, print and radio journalism, and essays.
We started to keep a list — not just a traditional list of birds but a record of two lives coming together. We were strict, allowing on it only birds we saw in tandem. Anything experienced without the other didn’t count anymore. That first bird, Bullock’s oriole — black and white with a bright-orange belly — coincided with our first kiss, under a cloudless sky at Sunol Regional Wilderness Area.
My parents were dancers. Though practical and predictable in all else, they let their passions surface in the rumba, the tango, the dances that conjured up exotic places and smoldering emotions.