Posted January 13, 2016in Joe's Neighborhood
“Dad says it is your turn to go down the hill with me.” The young girl, her right side dipped in snow, her stocking cap covering only one ear, and a plastic blue sled trailing in her wake, looks up expectantly at the group of three moms standing at the
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Posted January 06, 2016in Joe's Neighborhood
It was unexpected to be sure. The plunk of the piano wound its way back through the narrow hallway to the furthest alcove in the back room and drifted above the chile rellenos and the enchiladas and the taco salad. Distant. Muted. Fading in and out, but certainly there. A
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Posted December 23, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
The door pushes inward to warmth and people and noise. The young men in front of us are momentarily stuck at the entrance. The cold of the outside is fighting to move upstream into the coziness of the inside. But then the young men are in, with us closely following.
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Posted December 16, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag Feed the birds, that’s what she cries While overhead her birds fill the skies.” Feed the Birds — Mary Poppins The multicolored pigeons cooed, the exotic chickens clucked, even that bird on the wire gave a loud squawk. No matter
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Posted December 09, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
“As American as pumpkin pie.” An interesting thing to say about our relationship to a squash. Certainly, the ingredients are a melting pot of pumpkin, ginger, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, milk, cloves, eggs and, of course, a piecrust made with lard. But “as American as pumpkin pie”? That’s a lot of pressure
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Posted December 02, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
“My nickname is Bucky. My real name is George. My mom didn’t want to call her little boy George, although she did agree to the name. My next oldest brother had an imaginary friend named Bucky. So they took the name from him and stuck it on me… I’ve been
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Posted November 25, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
Romance is fickle in the best of times. You light the candles. You pour the wine. You turn on slow jazz. And… the topic of your mother comes up. How did that happen? What went wrong? And why are you sleeping with the dog in the spare bedroom? But there
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Posted November 18, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
The jury sits attentively. Young and old. Casual and dressed. White and one African-American. They watch the lawyers. They glance discreetly at the defendant. And then they look to the front. The judge is seated on a raised platform. Black robe cleaned and pressed. It’s nearly time. District Court Judge
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Posted November 11, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
At 5:15 this afternoon, the vet is coming to put our cat down. It’s hard to believe. Chester lies still on a blanket on our son’s bed. An old guy. Eighteen years old. One-hundred-twenty-six in cat years. A good, long life by anyone’s reckoning. But there is no purr today.
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Posted November 04, 2015in Joe's Neighborhood
The youthful-looking man comes out on the stage trailing the announcer. He is dressed all in black, with black hair, black short beard and dark eyes. A dancer for sure, with feet turned out, head upright and neck long. He stops at center stage — although nothing else about him
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