After dropping Michael off at Sorley’s sister, I went to Sorley's home. He greeted me with a single single-malt, and we sat down in his study together, tasting the treat with eyes closed. “What’s your favorite poem?” he asked. “The Raven,” I replied. “It’s because I memorized it in 8th grade and it’s in my bones.” “Memory is the best home for poems,” was his response. The meeting started at eight and went on well past midnight. I asked him if his dreams played any part in the making of his poems. “Oh, yes, many, yes, many. Dreams are the best source.” He continued: “sometimes, it’s just a word in a dream that catches me. Sometimes, a phrase, Sometimes, even a whole line. And, once in a while, several lines, perhaps even a whole poem. How about you?” “The same, I said. I always experience these as gifts.” “Oh, yes, gifts indeed. That’s why the only response that meets the occasion is to put one’s heart into the making. The heart is the thing. Having the full poem in memory, by heart.” The conversation was like this the whole time, and it was unforgettable.

That night, I dreamed of a basement workshop. In it was an old hand press. In the dream I understood it was to be mine and I was to print a book called Moonstone.

I never did print that book. It is one of my deep regrets. But I did acquire a Washinton hand press. It was from the Cincinnati Museum of Science and Industry. It had been slightly damaged in a fire and I was able to get it at a reasonable cost. My wife and I hand printed three books on it using handset type and handmade paper and hand binding. Our first book won the Letterpress Prize for the Best Handmade Book printed in the Pacific Northwest in 1982. [My apologies; my trip to Scotland when I met with Sorley was in 1980, not 1992.]