A couple of years ago,
you could buy F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
childhood home in St. Paul, Minnesota.
They were selling it for $650,000,
and doesn’t that sound like a bargain
for a place where F. Scott Fitzgerald
spent his youth?
I imagine he did a lot of merry
Minnesota things, like sledding and
throwing snowballs and letting the snowflakes
melt on his tongue.
He could have been doing these things in June,
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Those people of winter are aliens to me.
If I had had an extra $650,000,
I would have bought F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
childhood home
and turned it into a writer’s retreat,
but that money never fell into my lap
because money never falls into my lap,
and I remain 400 miles away.
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