The Yellow Finch, a Black Bikini, and a Rat Called Hernandez: A Memoir

I was looking for a sailor to take me away on an adventure.

You can die making love, playing tennis, shoveling snow, mowing the lawn-or walking through Arrivals at an airport, like my husband, Lars. The morning of the day he died I dreamed that my family and I were standing at a bed where he lay with his eyes closed. It was June 28, 2002.

In the 1970 movie Woodstock, of all the hippies interviewed, one caught my eye: a naked guy sitting on a rock in a pond. "Do you always swim naked?" asks th...