Call from San Francisco

January 8, 1983: Last night my father called unexpectedly from San Francisco. Wanted to know how I was, when I'd be coming back. I didn't tell him that things would have to be different if I do decide to go back. They'd have to be livelier, more vibrant. I realize now that so far I've lived my life like an old-fashioned grandmother in her late 70s. Not that the grandmothers around here are old-fashioned. In fact, they're quite modern.
But I'm 26, about to turn 27. There's still time for me to be young.