Mike's View: Memories of Mom and the power of poetry
By Mike Robinson
Our living room in the 1950s had one bookcase near the fireplace wall where Mom parked a few clunky books. Oh.. she was a reader for sure but other than the bookmobile that came to a corner down the block she had no convenient way in shabby White Center to buy good books. I remember her curled like a cat under the the yellow lamplight and an afghan on her lap, a Herbert Tareyton letting a slender smoke signal snake into the room and a mug of coffee perched at her elbow as she scanned a bad novel— probably a potboiler by Frank Yerby (The Saracen Blade!) or a Daphne DuMaurier romance…