Editor’s Letter
Ornaments of LIFE As a college student, I had an eccentric landlady who was right out of central casting. Miss P, as she was called, had been a nurse for LBJ’s children. I rented her garage apartment, which was behind her house in Austin’s Clarksville neighborhood. Every time I came home, she would invariably come loping out of her back door waving her arms with a loud whooping “Yoo-hoo!” to get my attention. She would make up an excuse to ask me a question before diving into a long list of neighborhood gossip and observations worthy of Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched. I remember her fondly, though sometimes her queries about why I got home at 1:27 a.m. were a little intrusive to a young student only recently away from his parents. The…