Loretta Swit sat in the dim light of the studio, her eyes fixed on a grainy clip of a helicopter lifting off into a dusty California sky. Beside…

The heat in the Santa Monica Mountains was often unbearable. The dust would settle into the deep creases of the olive-drab fatigues, making everything feel heavy and permanent….

The sun was hitting the pavement at a sharp slant, the kind of afternoon gold that makes everything look like a faded photograph. Loretta stood there, wrapped in…

You know, people always ask me about the dresses. They ask about the high heels, the feather boas, and the Toledo Mud Hens caps. They want to know…

Loretta Swit leaned back in her chair, the soft light of the late afternoon filtering through the window of her living room. Across from her sat David, his…

The fog rolls in thick over Newport, Oregon, blurring the line between the cold Pacific and the quiet streets where the man lived. To the world, he was…

I remember being at a fan convention in New Jersey a few years back, sitting on a stage in front of a sea of people who still lived…

The sun was beginning to dip behind the Santa Monica Mountains, casting long, amber shadows across the dusty trail. Mike Farrell leaned against the wooden rail of the…

The restaurant was quiet, the kind of place in Malibu where the wine is expensive but the memories are free. Mike Farrell leaned back in his chair, the…