The Writer Next Door
Volume 58, No. 1, Spring 2008
He remembered refrigerators, thousands of them on the docks in Vietnam, in the capital. Not Hanoi, not Ho Chi Minh City, the capital then ... he pulled down the well-thumbed atlas from above his desk. Saigon. How could he forget Saigon? He was not yet sixty, but details, important details, were already settling into the pond of his mind. That's how he saw it: a deep, bluish-green pond with stuff buried in soft mud at the bottom. When the mud stirred, a memory - refrigerators - popped to the surface.