Mill Valley, 1989 Once I lived in Mill Valley. Mornings, I wrote and, after lunch, walked to the Book Depot in the middle of town for the company and coffee. Afternoons, I often took another walk among the coastal redwoods, and sometimes into the hills. At various spots and high enough, I could see the ocean, Sausalito, San Francisco. On one of these hikes, I met a dark-haired young man wearing a brilliantly tie-dyed t-shirt. Life with the Machvaia Roma had taught me to share my thoughts and I immediately confessed his shirt struck me as knockout. He asked if I were a Deadhead -- Marin was full of Deadheads. Deadhead music had never appealed to me and I said so. Nevertheless, he peeled off the shirt which he had acquired at a Deadhead concert. "Here, you like it, you keep it," he jauntily said and continued on his way. I treasured his gift, mostly for the manner of the giving. Then, after a year or so, I immediately gave it to someone I didn't know who admired it in passing. Giving is an art and a practice. Giving can be practiced as an art.