By Richard Russo
Pulitzer Prize-winning author Richard Russo and 5 different Maine authors the following end up that the shut of existence don't need to be packed with darkness, whilst hospice assistance is handy. those writers recount intensely own and profoundly relocating end-of-life debts that conceal a large spectrum of human adventure. All six authors are donating their royalties to a Maine hospice; Down East also will donate 10 percentage of proceeds to an analogous reason.
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Extra resources for A Healing Touch: True Stories of Life, Death, and Hospice
People walking stopped me, some jokingly asked what great sin I had committed that forced me to undertake such a grueling penance. Others asked me to pray for them; one horribly desperate man clearly needing it, or something, very badly. And in one small mountain town in Spain where we had stopped to have lunch in the square, two very old ladies came out of their house to see who we were, and actually blessed us when we told them we were pilgrims. I’ve certainly never had anyone do that before who wasn’t a priest.
They then shook our hands heartily and asked us to pray for them at Santiago. The reactions of people along the route were as different as the people themselves. For example, at Lectoure, a beautiful town in Gascony, we were standing outside the best restaurant in town, looking at the menu posted there, reading it more like a newspaper than taking it seriously, and commenting how it was, sadly, beyond our modest means. Completely unknown to us, the chef and owner was standing right behind us, having a quick cigarette, in the charming but extremely narrow medieval street upon which the restaurant faced.
Let me just say that after I was attacked by four certiﬁably homicidal German shepherds at once—two in front and two behind, crazy with bloodlust, both blocking the road in the direction I absolutely had to go and keeping me from turning around and trying to ﬁnd another, less lethal route—everything changed and I found myself in a countryside so beautiful that there was a palpable sense of enchantment, a place far from anywhere, a land that seemed to have been wholly untouched by time. With my earlier, almost mythological trial forgotten, I walked down endless miles of dirt track, now open, now bordered with 41 trees, now lined with centuries-old walls of stone, eventually coming to a crossroads at which there was one ﬁeld that was different from the rest: a walled ﬁeld with a large arched gateway, such as I had never seen before, as if the remnant of some now-vanished golden age of prosperity.