Still planning the Thanksgiving getaway - a bus schedule from Ft. Knox to Louisville.

I have little to say about it - no great insights, no more memories - but as it happens, I read a review in yesterday's paper about a book called "On Chesil Beach," by Ian McEwan.

"'They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible.'

"The year was 1962..."

We weren't virgins - exactly - but "conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible." I gather from the letters that we enjoyed ourselves immensely in bed, but I know now that I was in it for the acceptance, for the validation it gave me that, skinny as I was, I was still sexually exciting to somebody. That somebody loved me.

I know that I would not learn to fully enjoy myself for another 15 years or more.

The review ends with a poem by Philip Larkin:

"Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -

...

Up till then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for a ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything."