Fifteen or so years later, I was visiting with Gene and Betsey in Atlanta. Gene was distraught, almost frantic. It was Betsey’s birthday, and the flowers he had ordered had not come. Betsey reassured him that she knew he was always thinking of her—except, of course, during baseball games and when he was reading and writing. That, I thought to myself, doesn’t leave much time except in dreams, at meals, and in the car, with Betsey driving, because Gene never learned how to drive.
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