I would remind him that I'd sent my manuscript to the Sundance Institute, addressed him, thinking there might be a chance he'd read it. After all, we both are passionate about Utah. The one of golden aspens, wild horses, pristine mountain snows, and black-winged magpies that take flight, rising suddenly from the precipice we stand on. Sending the manuscript seemed worth a try, however doomed to fail it might have been. Months later, I received a thick package with the kindest rejection I never got from any agent. It didn't hurt.
Yesterday with blue skies the color of Utah spring, I left the stargazer and Brady to walk one short block toward Dixie Chili where there seemed to be lots of activity. As I drew closer, I noticed people with their phones poised in front of their faces, in the only way people seem to see things these days, through a tiny screen.
Then, coming out of an old bank building was Mr. Redford in a sky blue jacket and Khakis. I might never be this close to him again geographically. But the way he walked when he wasn't acting, how he slouched his hands in pants pockets, the octogenarian round to his shoulders, reminded me of the other place I call home-Utah.
That Utah where snowflakes can be the size of fists. That place where Mount Timpanagos can be slate gray, black or purple depending on how the sun hits. The place where a band of wild horses trace along topography the color of linen sheets snapping on a clothes line. Or perhaps the place where a night sky, away from city lights, can be ripe for star gazing.