Issue 78 | The Sun Magazine

May 1982

Readers Write

The Music In My Life

A folk-mass at church, a mountain cabin full of friends, Sunday nights at the San Dune Tavern

By Our Readers
Quotations

Sunbeams

There’s nothing wrong with the world. What’s wrong is our way of looking at it.

Henry Miller, Big Sur, and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

A Book Of Games

A Course In Spiritual Play

Your mind can smile. Did you know that? Try it right now and you will see. Amusement without mockery is divine. Laugh softly at yourself. Notice how everyone does the best he can. There is no one undeserving of a gentle pat and the light touch of your love.

By Hugh Prather
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

City/Country Miners

Some Northern California Veins

This time he’s more me than I am and we have been here together many lifetimes before and we are drinking each other alive. This is the moment to die. Nothing can get better. Nothing does.

By Jennifer Stone, Frank Polite & Frank B. Kiernan
Fiction

The Funeral

He remembered feeling sick with fear. She had been breathing with difficulty, the air making a rasping sound in her throat. She sounded different — almost impolite. Sounds that used to mean Nana were the floating notes of her harpsichord, the soft rustle of the pages she turned in story books, songs half hummed half whispered, and the small clicking of her knitting needles.

By Timea K. Szell
Fiction

Man Of Silver, Man Of Gold

That crumbling house with its rusty iron fence, like a disillusioned spider’s web, became important. Even its blotch of drained soil, discolored and long sterile, was a symbol of warfare. This spelled out a larger drama of the world I was just beginning to realize I was living in.

By Leslie Woolf Hedley
Fiction

Black Reaper

We couldn’t have been more delighted, Buck and I, he in the warm arms of Mr. Boston, me in the warm arms of life in the sunny south, at a time when the shadows were hazy, the sunshine was bright, and the smell of the newly cropped bermuda grass touched my nostrils, and the days awaited me breathlessly, endlessly.

By Lorenzo W. Milam