"On this day in 1961, Ernest Hemingway committed suicide, at the age of 61."

1994: I graduated from a respected liberal arts college with a B.A. in English without ever having read a word by Hemingway.

1997: A syndicated radio show's summer book discussion prompted me to pick up The Old Man and The Sea. I read it in one night. Since then I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the macho Papa.

1998: I read A Farewell to Arms on the porch of our Port Antionio, Jamaica hotel while caring for my boyfriend, with whom the local food and/or water did not seem to agree.

1999: At a time-share condo in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida with two friends after breaking up with said boyfriend, I bought The Sun Also Rises at a chain bookstore and read it in one rainy day. It's still my favorite. Isn't it pretty to think so? Later that summer, I finally read A Moveable Feast, raved about by a man I knew in 1996.

2000: A borrowed copy of The Snows of Kilimanjaro sits on the porch of a rental cottage in Nags Head, North Carolina. Because of its durable library dust jacket, it serves well as a coaster for glasses of red wine, but I do read several stories, including The Killers.

Since I failed to read a Hemingway book last summer, I'll add two to this year's reading list: Death In the Afternoon, For Whom the Bell Tolls.