The Summer of Bob

Imagine hearing his voice for the first time. Again.

I don’t know what year it was, but it was the Summer of Bob.

Maybe I was thirteen. My brother and I spent our summers in Maine when we were growing up, and the first few weeks of vacation were always the same grueling chore of mowing the neglected, three-foot grass around our farmhouse with a small, pull-start mower that hadn’t self-propelled for years.

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