My muse Edna and I share a birthday, one hundred years apart. At least, I think we do. Edna loved to obscure her age, and her birth records were destroyed in the infamous San Francisco earthquake. Today is the anniversary of Edna's death. Perhaps this means that I will die on December 14th, 2059?
To mark the occasion, here is a charming 1910 article from the New York Times reporting a near-death experience Edna had on a yacht, in Little Hell Gate, off the East River:
"We never had a bite to eat, not even a drink. Besides that, it was dark and stormy."