Bunny Fountain

The Bunny Fountain on the way from Trumbull to Stratford... if you take the back roads!

He's not like everybody else!

GOD SAVE THE KINKS!

Butterfly on the Bus

Butterfly – September 2010

In contrast
to the mostly rugged
working-class folks
sitting in resigned
impatience
on the early morning
Coastal link bus
to Bridgeport,
this one woman -
probably in her
mid-50s -
was sharply outfitted
with floral patterns;
an overflow of
pink, red
and blues
adorning her dress.

She sat in front
on a lateral seat
where she could
talk to the driver,
but still
hold court –
between the frequent stops –
with the other
folks
sitting nearby.

“My mother
had breast cancer
and
it took my
two aunts.
I shouldn’t be surprised
that I
have it
too,”
she said
adjusting her
white gloves
that fit
smoothly,
naturally
on her hands
and stood
in sharp contrast
to her deep, black
seemingly soft arms.
“The doctors said
I may have waited
too long
and they were slow
to find out
what was wrong…
but I’ve been praying
and I know this
will work out
one way
or the other.
This is in
God’s hands
now.”

As people
got on the bus
and
got off the bus,
most were not paying
any mind
to their surroundings,
or the conversations
that surrounded them.
They were
caught up
in the 7 a.m.
dew
that clouds
our morning
perceptions.

No one seemed
to think
that the pretty dress,
white gloves
and Sunday hat
may have been
out of place
with the
working class,
physical labor
set and
their more
rugged wear.

As the woman
stood to leave
the bus
at Bridgeport Hospital
she stood back
as a young girl,
probably about 6 or 7
with braids in her hair
jumped on the bus
and,
as if announcing her arrival,
looked around
at everyone
with a big smile
that showed-off
a missing tooth

She stopped
with her mother
Wwho dropped coins
in the slot
to pay their fare

“Oh honey,
your hair looks beautiful,”
the woman
who was sitting
in the front seat said

“My mommy
did that,”
said the girl
with a sing-song
in her voice.
“I’m hanging out
with my mommy
today!”

“OK, lets
take a seat,”
the girl’s
mother said,
snapping her
change purse shut

As they started walking
towards a seat,
the woman in front of the bus -
who was about to leave -
placed one of her
white-gloved hands
gently
on the girl’s head

“God bless you, child.
God bless you”

The woman
then left the bus,
taking slow
deliberate
steps
as she headed
to her journey
and the bus
drove off
like it always does
after each stop

Miles - Bitche's Brew

Again, like the beers with the Zappa label, I'm a sucker for this kind of marketing. In this case, the beer was awesome! (and, as long as we are on the subject, the Miles Davis album of the same name is awesome as well!)

Doggin' it at the Monroe SPCA

These guys are just looking for a good home!

Hope

Wrigley

Real Life

Real Life – May 2010

“Do you have a team?” Mike, a new co-worker asked, one early summer day.
“A team,” I asked back.
“A baseball team,” he said.
“Like the Yankees?” I asked.
“No. A fantasy team. In a fantasy league,” he said, emphasizing his words probably in hopes of ending this game of verbal catch we were playing.
“No. But I like the Yankees!”
This seemed like a hopeless exercise and the conversation stopped, as if we created a non-verbal agreement to just stop.
So, while I spent the better part of the summer appreciating the real games:
Two teams…
Nine innings (usually)…
Set rosters on each team…
The crack of the bat…
Players trying to stretch singles to doubles…
Mike would spend his summer combing the morning box scores and piece together how his fantasy team was doing. He would complain about how various players were used in the line-up, like he was plotting strategy with Lou Pinella and Joe Girardi each night.
I didn’t get it.
And once the season started winding down, I was sitting on the edge of my seat hoping the Yankees would storm the playoffs with the same domination that they showed all season.
There is a hope people grasp at all through the baseball season – that their team can string together enough wins to play a series or two in October.
Everyone else would just “wait ‘till next year!” Another eternal call of the hopeful! Either way, everyone looks forward to pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training – a sure sign that it will soon be time for baseball again!
But Mike (remember Mike?…)
But Mike must have realized that his fantasy team was not going to finish on top – apparently the victim of injuries, bad trades and questionable calls on the field.
So he would spend the last part of the season complaining about his wife… as well as life in general, all while obsessing about Jennifer Aniston, whose photos adorned his work space.
“So marry her,” I said.
“Marry who?” Mike asked.
“Jennifer Aniston,” I said.
“What? Are you fucken nuts?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“So how am I going to marry Jenn?” he asked.
He always called her Jenn!
“The same way you had Ryan Howard batting clean-up for you all year,” I said.
“How?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.
“In you fantasy league,” I said, although I was joking, especially Jennifer Aniston was clearly out of his league.
“So, now Mike started spending his mornings combing the entertainment sites and receiving Google alerts on Jennifer Aniston. He would introduce her into a conversation like he really did know her – like they were actually married.
“Jenn’s going to be in San Francisco this weekend promoting her new film…”
“Did you see Jenn’s new movie? I told her it was probably her best work yet…”
And he would actually get irritated – no, downright pissed – if he saw any stories about her love life and how she was cheating on him.
After awhile he started an affair… with Lindsey Lohan.
And even tried to keep up with her partying lifestyle: “It was a rough one last night,” he said on a few occasions.
And then he was gone. Mike got another job. He hated the structure of a large corporation and decided he would be better working for a small marketing firm instead.
“I can’t work in this big box environment. No creativity! This place just has no grasp of reality,” he said as he packed up his desk – and photos of both the real and virtual families – and walked out the door.

Madison Ice House

This is probably one of the most photographed buildings in town - and I couldn't resist taking a shot myself!

Nashville Record Shop

Was in nashville recently, and it may have turned into one of my favorite cities. The people were dynamite and the music was awesome! The level of musicianship was remarkable and the city had a lot of character to it. Almost like a country version of New Orleans - but without the overwhelming culture!

Fall, Winter, Football and Beer - The Things You Can Count On! - April 2010

My father was a hard-core Oakland Raiders fan in the days of the old AFL- the upstart American Football League. In 1968, the Raiders were one of the best teams in the league and I remember watching them play on television just about every Sunday.
As 13-year-old watching games with my father, it was easy to root for the Raiders because they had the coolest uniforms! Silver and black with an emblem on their helmets that featured cross-swords and a Raider with an eye-patch. You couldn’t get any cooler than that!
Their quarterback was Darryl Lamonica, aka “The Mad Bomber,” who loved to air it out. They had crazy receivers, a mean defense and a back-up quarterback who had a peace sign sticker on the back of his helmet. I would sit in front of the television with the TV Guide, which listed the rosters of the teams on television each weekend, and study every player and every play.
In the NFL – the established and more respected National Football League – my father liked the lowly New York Giants and the seemingly invincible Baltimore Colts.
He hated – and I mean really hated – the Dallas Cowboys, who were the archrivals of the Giants, and the New York Jets. My father and his friends seemed to have two problems with the Jets. First, they weren’t the Giants. Secondly was the brash quarterback with the white shoes, cocky attitude and handlebar mustache – Joe Namath. Joe had an arm like a rifle. He was the first passer I can remember who, every time he threw the ball, made it look graceful as it sailed in a tight spiral to the arms of the waiting receiver, who would rarely have to break stride to retrieve it. Joe could thread a needle throwing that ball, I thought!
So, when I checked the TV Guide on Saturday, November 16,1968, and saw that the Jets were playing the Raiders – in Oakland – on Sunday at 4 o’clock, I knew it would be a great day of football.
Football was a ritual in my house – almost a religion. On Saturdays, my mother would make a large pot of sauce with sausage and meatballs. Anyone who came over would be offered a fresh baked grinder roll from Altieri’s Bakery on the Stratford Green and told to make a meatball or sausage grinder. My mother loved to make large quantities of everything so we could share with friends. If my friends and I went to see the Stratford High School game at Longbrook Park on a crisp, chilly Fall Saturday afternoon, we would look forward to hitting my house after the game for a grinder, some sodas and to watch the University of Notre Dame – the “Fighting Irish” football team - with my father, who would be sitting on his Captain’s chair in front of the television. He would hang out watching football until about 6 o’clock, when he would go to his job – one of two he had - as a bartender.
My father’s Sunday ritual consisted of waking up in the morning – his only day off from both jobs – and sitting at the dining room table to read the newspaper and drink coffee for awhile. He would then meet some of his friends at Spada’s Blue Goose for a few Schaeffer draft beers and a few shots of Seagram’s VO. From there, he was off to Gold’s Delicatessen in downtown Stratford to pick up something to nibble on while watching the games. Gold’s was probably the best Deli in Connecticut.
Sometimes, if my mother was cooking dinner, he would just grab a jar of cow or lamb’s tongues that he would slice on a small cutting board on a table next to the Captain’s chair and eat while watching the game. Other times, if we weren’t having a sit-down dinner, he would get some corned beef or pastrami, Swiss cheese, a Jewish rye, spicy mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, onion and pickles from a barrel and make a large sandwich. The corned beef and pastrami was so good at Gold’s that, for years, it was almost impossible for me to enjoy it from any place else. My 15-year-old older sister Jackie and I loved it when my father would bring home some sliced meats from Gold’s.
We would never try the cow or lamb tongues, though. The thought of eating a tongue grossed us both out, but I never said anything about it. Jackie, however, would make it a point to say just how gross she thought it was. So when my father put a lamb’s tongue on the end of a fork and waved it in front of Jackie’s face while offering her a bite, she screamed and stormed off to her room, slamming the door shut in the process. My father went upstairs after her.
“Come on, Jackie,” he said from outside her bedroom door. “For Christ’s sake. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just having some fun.”
“Go away,” Jackie yelled back at him. “You are sick!”
“Come on,” my father said, then waited a few more minutes before gently knocking on the door again.
When Jackie opened the door, she was greeted by my father, holding the lamb’s tongue at face level, as he let out a lamb-like, “Baaaaaaaaaaa!”
“That’s it!” Jackie yelled as she slammed the door again. “You people are sick! I’m never coming out again.”
Once, I made the mistake of getting into the middle of a dispute between my father and my sister. She was dressed to go out one Sunday afternoon, but my father deemed her skirt too short. She was upset and he wasn’t budging. I thought I would add a little football humor by tossing a yellow dish towel on the floor and calling a penalty on the play. “Penalty; skirt too high;” I said signaling the short skirt length high on my thigh. “Offense. Fifteen yards.”
My father chuckled and walked out of the kitchen. My sister said, “Fuck you, Kevin,” and walked over and kicked me in the shin. It was hard – I’d estimate that if she kicked a football it would have been good for a 35-yard field goal. It was also loud and it hurt! I hobbled to the couch to watch some football and vowed that I would try to keep my mouth shut during any future family disagreements.
More often, though, my mother would be the one upset with my father’s antics. On some occasions he would arrive home from Spada’s after a few too many beers and shots. This particularly upset my mother if she cooked dinner.
“John, the roast is probably overcooked!,” my mother would say, taking my father’s tardiness as a personal affront to her dinner plans. “It is probably tough! It’s the only day we can all be together for dinner, and the roast is overcooked now and is probably tough – it’s ruined!!”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Millie,” my father would say. “It smells great. Let’s eat. Everything will be fine.”
But my mother would still be stewing – she took everything personally - and my father knew it. My mother wanted everything to be perfect for the Sunday dinner – and having a tough roast basically ruined her day and put her on edge.
“Everything is delicious, Millie,” my father would say. “You did a great job with everything…”
This is about the time I wished I ran for cover…
“… but the meat was a little tough,” my father continued. “Not too bad, but a little tough.”
After a food critique like that, my mother usually did one of two things: stay at the table and stew some more while glaring at my father or storm out of the room. This time, she introduced a third option when she stood up and flung her plate of food at the wall. “That’s it, I can’t take any more of this,” she said, storming out of the room.
My father continued eating; acting like he didn’t notice what just went on.
I thought it was funny, but in an uneasy kind of way, probably not realizing at the time the level of disfunctioning that was actually going on in the house. Jackie and I would not talk about these instances until years later. Our youngest sister at the time, Hillary, seemed oblivious to the insanity.
Sometimes, if my mother stormed out of a room on a Sunday after my father came home from an afternoon of too much drinking, he would usually make a joke out of it as he went after her (once, he went after her on his knees while singing “Bess, you is my woman now” from Porgy and Bess)
But, eventually he would settle into his chair and start watching the game – yelling at the TV on occasion, “For Christ’s sake, how could you drop that pass? Jesus…” My mother, meanwhile, would resume her afternoon of sitting in the kitchen, talking on the phone endlessly with friends and relatives and chain smoking.
For both my parents, there would always be a beer close by – something I didn’t really realize as odd until years later when I went to a friend’s house and noticed that the whole time visiting, practically an entire afternoon passed, and no one was drinking. My father would have a beer glass or mug nearby, as well as a shot glass for the occasional Seagram’s VO. My mother would use a Styrofoam cup.
On Sunday, November 17, 1968, though, my father was revved-up for the Jets/Raiders game. “I hope Ben Davison breaks Joe Namath’s fuckin’ jaw,” he would randomly say during the San Diego Chargers/Buffalo Bills game. (Actually, it was Ike Lassiter of the Raiders that eventually broke Joe’s jaw). The Chargers/Bills game – although good - was almost like a formality – we had to watch it while building up to the Jets/Raiders.
And the Jets/Raiders game was a classic. Both defenses played fierce at times – and there was a lot of pushing, shoving and jawing after the plays. Both offenses would find a way to score, with Oakland up 14-12 at the half. I thought the Raiders would pull ahead in the second half, but Namath lead the Jets on two fourth-quarter touchdown drives. The Jet’s Jim Turner kicked a field goal late in the game, and the Jets were ahead 32-29 and about to seal the game.
This is what football was all about, I thought: a tough game with players hitting each other hard and ending-up with dirty uniforms. But I really wanted to see the Raiders pull the game out.
With only a couple of minutes to go, though, and the Raiders driving, the game abruptly went off the air.
The movie “Heidi” came on.
“What the fucking Hell…” my father started, walking over to the TV and changing the channels to see if the game was on somewhere else. “This better be a God-damn commercial!”
When he realized that the game was in fact off and “Heidi” was on, he walked over to the wood-paneled wall, swearing under his breath the entire time, and kicked a hole in it before limping into the kitchen to grab a beer, still cursing up a storm. Then he was right back at the TV, looking at Heidi in disbelief that the game was actually off.
My sister Jackie ran into the room. “I have the game on,” she yelled. “I have the game on!”
“What? How?” he shot back.
“On Hillary’s radio,” she said, holding up a small, pink transistor radio. “The game’s on!”
“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the radio.
When he couldn’t get good reception in the living room, or dining room, or kitchen, or foyer… he ran out the front door, into the chilly evening air, and sat on the front porch, seemingly wrapping his body around that radio as he held it up to his ear.
We all stayed back - my mother, Jackie, Hillary and myself – watching my father through a window as he enjoyed the last minute of the game, which saw the Raiders score two touchdowns in the last minute to pull out a 43-32 victory.
“Unbelievable,” my fathered yelled through his hearty laughs. “Jesus Christ! This is unbelievable!”
The Jets had the last laugh in the AFL championship game, beating the Raiders for a trip to Super Bowl III and a game against the Baltimore Colts. My father was pissed the Raiders lost, but dismissed it by saying, “That’s OK. I wouldn’t want Darryl Lamonica to get hurt too badly by the Colts defense. They are going to kill Namath! The Colts cannot lose!”
My father had a lot of his friends over for the Super Bowl – and all but one put some big money down on the Colts. The other, Eddie McDonald, was a Jets fan and apparently put a good chunk of money on the Jets, hoping that they could somehow beat the spread and pay out a few bucks. After all, he reasoned, they had to beat the Raiders, as well as the powerhouse Kansas City Chiefs, Bills and Houston Oilers to get to the Super Bowl.
With each passing set of downs during the Super Bowl, with each minute that ticked off the clock, with each Baltimore miscue, with each disciplined Jet’s drive, it looked like somehow the Jets might actually pull off this miracle. But my father and his friends would have none of it.
“Enjoy this while you can, Eddie, the Colts will be waking up soon and will pull this one out,” they chided.
But Jets cornerback Randy Beverly intercepted two Earl Morrill passes to stop Colts’ drives.
“Any second Bubba Smith is going to get to Namath and will probably fucken’ kill him!,” they said.
And Jets running back Emerson Boozer kept gaining yards, tiring the Colts defense and keeping the Colts offense on the sideline.
“Absolutely right,” Eddie agreed. “There is no way the Jets can beat the Colts. No way!”
The boys started hooting and yelling when Johnny Unitis finally came into the game for the Colts and led the team on a touchdown drive. But that turned out to be the last gasp of a team that was totally outplayed.
As the game wound down to its end, so did my father and all his friends. My mother cooked a lot, but they also drank a lot. Everyone sat stunned staring at the television. Most had dropped jaws, except Eddie, who had a huge grin on his face.
“If they played again, the Colts would kill them,” one of my father’s friends’ finally said.
“Yea, but I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen - this was the one game championship,” Eddie said.
“I can’t believe this,” my father said. “And that cocky-son-of-a-bitch Namath pulled it off. He’s not half the quarterback Unitis is. I hope he gets his nose broken playing the college all-stars. That son-of-a-bitch! Bastard!”
“That was a good game,” I said to my father as he went into the kitchen to grab a beer. “Too bad the Raiders weren’t there. They could have won!”
“You never know,” my father said. “But the Raiders weren’t there. The Jets were. And this only goes to show you that nothing is ever guaranteed. Take nothing for granted. There is never any way to tell how anything will turn out. You can’t count on anything.”
True, I thought – and always remembered that.
Except fall and winter days and football. And beer. You can always count on that.

Thinking Out Loud - in there!

75 Whitney Ave in New Haven. I ran across it the other day while visiting the Educational Center for the Arts. 26 years ago, Steve lived there and we used the basement to practice regularly, thinking that we were somehow pretty good (we weren't bad - and the songs were great!) Where did the time go? (And, no, there massage parlor was not there when we used the space... damn!)

Bobby Sands - RIP

One of the few monuments in the US for Bobby Sands is in Hartford, CT. Took me a while to find it one afternoon. Bobby Sands usually invokes some strong opinions - but my thinking is that he lived and died for cause and I tend to agree with. I also believe violence never solves anything. But in some cases, the smug, piece-of-shit opressor certainly deserves it1

Did you ever dress a chicken?

Did you ever dress a chicken? Feb 2010

I had never dressed a chicken, and having grown up in the City of Bridgeport and not on a farm somewhere in Connecticut, I had no idea what dressing a chicken meant. Nothing against farms, I have thoroughly enjoyed living on Ted Jones Poultry Farm in Guilford for much of the past year, but lacked any farming sense.
So when Ted Jones, the old, cranky Yankee farmer asked me if I ever dressed a chicken, I told him no.
“Well, I have a bunch of birds in the coups and I need a hand dressing them on Friday morning,” he said. “Thanksgiving is less than two weeks out and I need to get these birds to Bridgeport so people can buy some large, fresh chickens for their meals.”
“I’ll be glad to help,” I said. “If it’s something you think you can teach me to do, I’ll be there.”
“Fine,” Ted said. “Meet me at 7 Friday morning; I’ll have everything set up.”
Ted was not very social and not much of a talker - instead he would grunt, or even bark, responses to questions we would have.
On the few times he did initiate conversation, it would be awkward – and sometimes creepy.
“So, you guys went grocery shopping today… five bags,” he would say.
I didn’t know we had five bags of groceries! But, wherever he was when we got home – at the coups, near the pond, feeding the cows or in his kitchen drinking coffee - he was watching and counting.
I was a student at Southern Connecticut State University studying journalism. My wife Kelly was supporting me as a graphic designer, working in New Haven, while our son Rory, a second-grader, was going to school and loving life on the farm.
Rory loved seeing the animals and watching them from the kitchen window while he ate dinner or colored at the table. He would also name them. His favorite was a small brown cow that was on the farm until recently that he named Rusty. Even Ted started calling him Rusty. For the few months Rusty and a half-dozen other cows – who were larger in size but not as playful as Rusty – were on the farm, they would provide Rory with his nighttime entertainment. Rory would run and tell us how Rusty slipped between the other cows to get some water from the pond or how Rusty would run to where the food was, which gave him a few minutes of uninterrupted dinner until the other cows moseyed on over and nudged Rusty aside.
The chickens would get names as well as they strolled between the chicken coupes. Once, while watching a couple of chickens – Mark and Henry were their names – and munching on a dinner of chicken, broccoli and white rice, Rory stopped abruptly, pointed to his plate and asked, “Hey, did this chicken used to be alive?”
I explained the ins-and-outs of the food chain to Rory, and he seemed not to be too upset with the whole raising-chickens-to-eat process.
One Sunday afternoon, while cooking burgers and hot dogs on the grill, we asked Ted if he would like to join us for lunch. He agreed, but, odd guy that he is, went into his house first to bring out some of his own beef patties (like we didn’t just offer to feed him!).
I cooked up his burgers, and as I was putting them on buns, Ted tells Kelly that she has to have one of his burgers.
“It’s the tenderest, tastiest burger you will ever have in your life,” he boasted.
“It’s delicious, Ted,” Kelly said.
“You know who that is?” he asked as Kelly and I looked at each other in horror.
“No, Ted, we don’t need to know…” I tried to say before being cut off by Ted’s answer…
“It’s Rusty,” he said.
Rory, who was munching on a hot dog, looked up.
“Rusty?” he asked.
Kelly and I were stunned. Ted laughed.
“Mom, did you eat Rusty?” Rory asked.
Stunned silence.
“No your Mom is not eating Rusty,” Ted said.
“Where is Rusty?” Rory asked Ted.
“I had to send him to another farm,” Ted said. “He needed more room to run around. But you know animals are raised on farms so people can eat them. This isn’t some petting zoo here.”
“Oh,” Rory said, looking suspiciously – and a little sad - at his mom before fixing his stare on the burger.
Maybe he willed the burger not to leave the plate, because Kelly didn’t touch it again.
We generally thought Ted was totally heartless – probably from a life of living and working on the farm without a wife or any children to help him appreciate things more. But then, the day before we were to dress the chickens, he told Kelly that while 120 chickens would be dressed and brought to Bridgeport to be sold, the 40-or-so remaining birds would be donated to the senior center in Durham. That made me excited about the dressing of the birds – even though I still had no idea what that was – because we would be helping out some elderly folks who deserved a hot Thanksgiving meal. We thought maybe there was a heart inside Ted after all. It just wasn’t that noticeable.
So, that Friday morning at seven sharp – I walked down to the coupes where I saw Ted backing up his truck. On the back of the old pick-up truck was a mound of crates.
“Alright city boy, you ready to start working for a living?” Ted asked.
“I’m ready,” I said, over the cluttered sound of chickens clucking.
Ted explained that I needed to go into the coupe, grab chickens and put them in the crates.
“Once you get five or six birds into a crate, I’ll close it and stack it,” Ted said. “But we don’t have all day for this.”
“It sounds easy enough,” I said, as I started grabbing chickens and putting them in the crates.
I wondered if this was all there was to dressing chickens – catch them and get them ready for the ride to Bridgeport. I even started having some fun, running after the chickens in a circle – like Stallone did in the first Rocky movie as he tried to catch the chickens. “Yo, Mickey, these chickens are kind of fast running around here,” I said doing my best – but not very good - Rocky Balboa impersonation.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ted barked.
He was not a movie fan. Said he probably hadn’t been to the movies in 25 years and he had no idea who Rocky was.
“We’re going to stop at about 100,” Ted said. “One more crate.”
We made sure the20-or-so crates were secure before we pulled away form the coupe. I was thinking we were preparing them for the 30-mile ride to Bridgeport. But as the truck slowly crawled up the eighth-mile dirt road to the back of Ted’s house, I saw the smoke – or what turned out to be steam – coming up from two large pots elevated over an open fire in Ted’s driveway. There were also three cones; they looked like three traffic cones, upside down near the pots of boiling water. On the other side of the pots was some machine with what looked like big blunt spikes on a rotary.
Man, what have you gotten yourself into? I asked myself.
We parked near this set-up and Ted jumped out of the truck.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “This needs to done right or we ruin the birds.”
He pulled a bird out of the crate; put it head first into the cone so the head would stick out of the bottom; took a knife and cut the bird’s throat.
“You do this to three birds at a time – use the three cones here,” Ted said. “By the time you get the third bird in here. The first one will have bled out enough to take it to the pot.”
I stood uncomfortable watching this – no longer feeling the chill in the air or noticing the spectacle of the sun rising over the farm. Ted took the now-dead bird to the pot by its feet; dunked it briefly into the almost-boiling water – “This will loosen its feathers,” he said – and then to the machine, where a pedal on the ground started the wheel turning.
“You take the bird right from the water to the wheel and this will knock its feathers off,” Ted explained. “Now this is a fast process. If the bird is in the water too long it is no good and if it is on the wheel too long it is no good – the bird will be bruised. You understand?”
“Uhm… sure Ted,” I said, not realizing how happy I had been all these years just eating food and not realizing were it came from.
“Alright then,” Ted continued. “You then bring the bird to me at this table and I’ll put the finishing touches on it; clean it up so someone will want to buy it. Now grab a crate and let’s get started.”
It was such an easy process, I thought. I could do this without giving it much thought.
I looked over at our house, which was across the dirt road and probably 75-feet away. I was hoping that Kelly could not see what I was doing and I prayed we’d be finished before Rory got home from school.
I grabbed the first bird from the crate: “You have no idea what’s coming, do you?” I asked myself – or maybe I was asking the bird. Either way, we had no clue.
The constant cackling and clucking seemed to echo on the property, which was surrounded by tall trees.
I put the bird into the cone, head first and leaned down and pulled his head through. I grabbed the knife, and while I still had a hold on the head, ran my knife across the bird’s throat – its warm blood pouring onto my hand – sticky like red paint. I grabbed the second bird and did the same and then the third, each time adjusting myself so the blood wouldn’t hit me so much.
I went back to the first bird, pulled it out of the cone, dipped it in the hot water and then ran it over the spikes on the turning wheel. I brought it to Ted.
“Not bad,” he said. “Since you are a city kid I thought you would mess the first one up.”
I nodded and walked back to the birds, grabbing the second and third one – which soon turned into the 20th and 21st ones – and then the 34th and 35th ones. With each group of three, the clucking became that much quieter.
At one point I realized that, as I carried one over to Ted, they looked like the rubber joke chickens you can buy. I wasn’t really in a laughing mood – I never had blood running onto my hands before - and I’m pretty sure the chickens wouldn’t get a kick out of it either.
“These are going to make some great dinners for people,” Ted said at one point. “Look at these; these are some good looking birds.”
I must admit, they were good looking birds.
But I still didn’t think I would be eating chicken for awhile.
Later, Ted told me that he gets a kick out of dropping the birds off at the senior center in Durham, sometimes with a few baskets of potatoes and vegetables from his garden.
“They get to have quite the feast for Thanksgiving with that,” he said.
“It must be great to see how appreciative everyone is about it,” I said.
“No, I just drop it off and go,” Ted said. “I don’t need to stick around. That’s not why I’m doing this. Now get me some more birds.”
We finished the birds – which ended the constant clucking - and I helped Ted load them onto the truck in sacks that he kept chilled in a refrigerator in his garage. He was off to Bridgeport and I was heading home to get ready for a class.
“I will do the rest for the seniors tomorrow,” Ted said before leaving. “But it’s a small load and I probably won’t need any help – not that you are usually around on Saturday mornings anyway. You usually head out on Saturday mornings.”
“I usually have a class,” I said. “But if you need me, I’ll be here.”
It wasn’t hard work. I knew it was necessary work.
But I still hated the feel of blood pouring onto my hands. I was hoping he wouldn’t need me.
At the house, I ran in and went straight to the shower, and scrubbed my hands more than a few times while in there. Once done, I stood at the bathroom sink washing my hands again. I was sure they smelled, although I washed them thoroughly in the shower. I would wash my hands, smell them, not smell anything, wash them again anyway and repeat…
“Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?” Kelly recited as she watched me from the doorway.
“Thanks for the Macbeth break, but my hands were covered in blood,” I said.
“No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red,” Kelly continued, finishing the Shakespeare quote with a chuckle. “This is the perfect time for Macbeth.”
All day while in class I would smell my hands, making sure they did not smell of blood. I didn’t smell anything unusual, but I still remained convinced that the small was there.
Ted did not need me the next day, which was fine. And after a couple of days I stopped smelling my hands.
It was a little while longer, though, before I ate another chicken.

Clancy Brothers and...

Fun times playing with the Reilly Clan. We always had high profile gigs and played the best places. The Clancy Brothers, The Wolfe Tones, The Saw Doctors, The Young Dubliners... this was a fun bunch. I still maintain I was asked to leave because I cut back on my drinking! (actually, I wasn't asked to leave, I just needed a break... I loved these guys)

Cat Dancing - She Dances Enchantingly!

When I played with Irish Jones - which are probably the fondest St.Pat's memories I have - we would always stop by one of our kid's classrooms to share Irish music and stories. Just a little something to try to dispell the stereotypes people have about the Irish (something ablout heavy drinking and being loud!). The most important point I would always try to make it: regardless of your background and heritage - and we're glad you are Irish one day out of the year - you can find out more about your history and the history of others from listening to their folk songs! Good times!

Oh yea, Cat is dancing in this shot - she is awesome!

O'Rourke's Diner

Very cool Irish diner in Middletown, CT. Worth a visit if you are ever in the neighborhood.

Ocean Mural

While in New Orleans last year, I saw this mural in the aquarium. I don't know who the artist is, but really love the mural and wanted to share.

Zappa, anyone

Art Show Poster

OK - so I go to the eca visual arts show in January and find that the piece of art on the poster promoting the show was done by Jack! I am a proud dad, indeed! Jack Rocks!! (and actually a photo of this piece is featured on this blog a few months back!)

The Job Search - January 2010

The Job Search

One September morning, a few weeks after returning broke from the 1983 Edinburgh Festival - a festival, by the way, where we thought we would become rich and famous rock stars and buy new houses for our mums – Geoff and I woke up very hung-over from drinking way too many beers, a variety of shots and doing God-knows-what with our mind and bodies.
And since neither one of us were able to really see or think straight or hold a cigarette – or hold anything for that matter – without our hands shaking, we decided this would be the perfect time to go out into the bright New Haven morning and find jobs.
Actually, it would have been a perfect morning to go back to sleep, but this finding a job idea was a decision we made about four hours earlier – at 4 a.m. – a time when people sitting up listening to Bob Marley and John Lennon, drinking and chain smoking all night, usually make crazy plans – probably because the safety of the darkness outside usually protects them from taking any immediate action. But, in this case, we decided to actually do it. To accomplish this task, I was determined to fight through the hangover; the cottonmouth, nausea and pain in the front of my head that felt like someone was actually trying to hammer a railroad spike into my fucking skull.
Besides, we needed jobs! Rent was due in 15 days and we had just about nothing, except a few dollars that was still earmarked for beer and experience in the restaurant business.
I knew the morning would be rough when I stood in the shower and the water pelting me actually hurt! Shaving was excruciating. Must have been for Geoff as well because it looks like he stopped shaving half-way through.
But, once I found a suitable – although not all together clean – oxford shirt and almost pressed khaki pants to put on, I sat in the recliner chair in the living room for an ice water and cigarette while I put on my shoes and what I thought were matching sox. The morning music I picked out to get us up and on our way was the album Berlin by Lou Reed (although my morning may sound a little more like “Sunday Morning Coming Down” by Kris Kristopherson).
Lou Reed’s Berlin is a masterpiece for the dark montage of the shattered, tortured lives it presents. No happy songs and no happy endings – these are songs that are sung from the perspective of junkies, a cheated-on husband and a suicidal anti-heroin. It may have been one of the worst choices of music for us to listen to as we started our day. Somehow I bypassed Squeeze and The Kinks, which would have at least put us in an upbeat - if not inspired - mood! But, honestly, Berlin was out of the album cover and easier to maneuver onto the turntable with my unsteady hands. And at the time, it just felt right!
We were hungry and in vile moods, but figured the water and cigarettes we cautiously consumed – for fear of throwing up – would suffice as we struggled to piece ourselves together to go out and find work.
When the song “How Do You Think It Feels” came on the stereo, Geoff grabbed his pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and slipped them on and started belting out the song to the record.
I must look almost as cool as Lou Reed now,” Geoff said, between singing the Lou lines “How do you think it feels… to always make love by proxy…”
We both probably had the same question stenciled on our faces whenever we looked at each other: “What the fuck are we doing?” But we needed to start bringing some cash into the house.
I don’t know if the thought ever occurred to us that we would probably be better off getting more sleep, having a good breakfast and doing some laundry first to better prepare us for our venture.
I don’t think it occurred to us either that restaurants usually hire pleasant, upbeat people and that our current condition made it hard to disguise our contempt for all life forms we came across that day. We even sneered at people we passed on the streets walking downtown.
Our red eyes, sickly pale faces, wobbly manner, chain smoking and thrown together clothing made us questionable candidates – at best – for any job.
Just weeks before, at the 1983 Edinburgh Festival, we were musicians; performers in a musical/comedy troupe. For five weeks, that was how we were defined. That’s who we were. We shed our personas as waiters and bartenders – working hard to maintain our apartments and fast lifestyles. In Edinburgh, we performed in Halls, in auditoriums, in courtyard performing spaces, on the back of a flatbed truck and on street corners, holding our own to appreciative crowds who bought enough tickets – or tossed enough pounds into our guitar cases – to keep us in fish and chip dinners and tins of Tennants Lager during our stay. In the end, though, we didn’t have nearly enough cash to return home. I sold my guitar while Geoff was able to get a loan from his mom to get back to Connecticut.
Now we were walking – unsteadily – down Elm Street talking about the Berlin story, the genius of Lou Reed and how whenever we put that album on during any gatherings someone eventually freaks out – usually during the song “The Kids” about how the character Caroline has her children taken away because she is such a bad mother. As the song/story comes to a close, there are the haunting cries of two young children calling for their mother.
I always thought the best writers are those who can bring their characters to life. For a songwriter to do that is more of a challenge, I always thought, because the song canvas is a little more limiting than other forms of writing. But thee are a handful of songwriters – like Lou Reed, Pete Townsend, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon and, of course, Ray Davies – that are absolute masters at bringing their characters to life.
The problem is, you have to be careful with what characters you are bringing with you for the day.
“Hey man, you got any spare change?” some black guy hanging in front of the Greek Village deli and convenient store asked.
“No man,” I said as I walked by.
“Come on, man, I need some change,” the guy said.
I thought we would keep walking and he would barely be a memory in few minutes time.
“You need change? Than get a fucken’ job,” Geoff shot back.
“Come on, Geoff,” I said. “Let’s go…”
“I know you got some spare change, mother fucker,” the black guy yelled.
“If I have to be out here looking for a job, then maybe that’s what you ought to be doing instead of standing out here begging for change from people who work hard for it,” Geoff yelled.
“Fuck-you mother-fucker,” the guy yelled.
“Fuck-you,” Geoff shouted back.
In a flash, it seemed, they lunged at each other and had a grip on each other’s shirts as they tumbled to the ground, still tossing “fuck-you mother-fuckers” back and forth like a verbal – but still full contact – ping pong match.
I picked-up Geoff’s sun glasses from the ground and pulled Geoff off the guy and just about dragged him away as he continued yelling.
I was repulsed by the strong stale booze and bad body oder smells of the loser in front of the Greek Village. At least I hoped it was him.
Three blocks into this adventure, and things weren’t looking good. Geoff brushed the dirt and dust off him – and shook the dirt out of his hair – but the damage was done. What little bit of a good mood we may have been able to muster for a job interview was left on the pavement.
“My glasses, please,” Geoff said.
I handed him his glasses, he slipped them on and said, “It wouldn’t have been done any differently in Berlin! Except maybe I would have killed the fucken’ guy!”
We made occasional references to the Berlin album throughout the day, as Geoff would hum – or sing – various cuts from the album. “How do you think it feels,” he sang while crossing York Street. “When you’ve been up for five days…”
Our first stop was to a restaurant on Broadway, on the outskirts of Yale, to say “Hi” to Brian, a manager we knew, and to let him know that we are available for work if he had any openings, or heard of any openings.
“This must be my lucky day,” the assistant manager said as she walked into the bar area to greet us.
Brian wasn’t in and we were stuck with the assistant manager, who I refuse to refer to as anything but “Bitch” in anything I write (and if Bitch should read this – Screw-you… It’s not about you! BITCH!)
“When I last saw you rock stars, you were leaving this ‘One horse town’ to become rich and famous and leave all of us losers behind,” Bitch said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty bar.
“I’m sure we never said that,” I said.
“You certainly did say that and you certainly implied it whenever you talked about going to wherever you were,” she said.
I was struck with how different – and lonely - the bars looked in the morning compared to the vibrant look, and sounds and smells of the afternoons and evenings.
“We always knew we would be back…” Geoff started to say, before Bitch interrupted him.
“Yea, but you guys didn’t think you would get jobs here, did you? What am I going to do? Hire you until you’re out of the country chasing some musical pipe dream again?”
“It’s not like that at all,” Geoff said.
“Sure, what ever you say,” Bitch said. “What’s up with you guys anyway? You look like hell!”
I think Bitch was starting to enjoy herself. I was wondering if Geoff had an encounter with Bitch at some point before we left and now Bitch was just getting back at him.
Geoff was always the smoother one; he had no problem with the ladies!
Realizing that work was out of the question, I lit a Marlboro and watched as the smoke rose past the brass lamps over the bar and drifted to the ceiling.
Geoff was still sweet talking Bitch. I was overcome a little bit by panic. Where would I find a job? Why was I looking for one on a morning where I now realized I looked – and came across – as miserable?
“What the hell are you doing?” Bitch yelled towards me. “Who said you could smoke in here? We’re not even open yet.”
I took another drag off my cigarette and watched the exhaled smoke drift off into nowhere, wishing I was floating away with it. I remembered doing the same thing laying on my back in the downtown garden in Edinburgh; watching the cigarette smoke seemingly drift up towards Edinburgh Castle.
I wanted to be anywhere but where I was at that moment. I wanted to be home holding my guitar.
“Hey, put that cigarette out!” Bitch yelled.
“Blow me,” I said.
“What?” Bitch just about screamed – a little stunned.
“Blow me,” I said.
“Leave… now!” Bitch demanded.
I put my cigarette out on the floor and walked out. Geoff followed.
“Nice touch,” Geoff said.
“You know, it’s all about making a memorable impression,” I said.
We both smiled, probably for the first time that day.
“Do we have any money on us?” Geoff asked. “Can we get some breakfast somewhere?”
We went across the street to the Yankee Doodle luncheonette, which is only slightly bigger than your average closet, and got some eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast. An orange juice for Geoff and chocolate milk for me – life was starting to seem OK again.
The job search – which we officially determined to be a bust – was suspended for the day; and it wasn’t even 10:30 a.m. yet.
On the walk back to the apartment, we stopped off at Rudy’s – correctly billed as the ‘Friendliest Place in Town’ – for a short beer and a couple of cigarettes while talking to Leo, the bartender, about our trip.
Back at the apartment, we gathered some wash and went down the street to the Laundromat so we would have clean clothes for our next job search adventure, which would turn out to be the next morning. While waiting for our clothes, we talked about music in general and – more specifically - what we should be doing musically. Geoff had a phenomenal voice. I was a passable bass player. We knew we had a lot of work to do if we were going to do anything meaningful with music.
Until then, though, we were both big talkers.
Back at the apartment, we both got in a serious nap and spent the rest of the day ironing, reading the classified ads of the New Haven Journal-Courier and plotting out our job search for the next day.
I still felt like shit from the night before, and worried that the hard-partying lifestyle was going to catch up with me in a bad way. I took a walk to the New Haven Green to clear my head and watch the majestic Yale buildings swallow the sunset. I was content with just a root beer and, of course, cigarettes.
When I found my way back to the apartment, Geoff was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
“How you feeling, sport?” I asked.
“Great, just great,” Geoff said, his response dripping with sarcasm. “So, are we going to find jobs tomorrow, hot shot?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“Good, but one thing I would like to do different from today…,” Geoff started.
“Oh, just one thing different than today?” I asked.
“OK, maybe we should do everything different,” Geoff said. “But, especially, I want to start the day without Lou Reed! He’s not hanging with us tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if that is possible,” I said. “But we’ll give it a shot.”

Book Club Selection

This is a book that caused a bit of a scene in my house while I was in high school. My father, a staunch Nixon-Republican, despised the hippies, yippies and anyone else who was left-thinking. When he found this book in the house he had a fit and destroyed it. I found it many years later (after Jerry Rubin turned corporate banker and died in a bazaar jaywalking accident) at a used bok sale, which was a fundraiser for a local scout troop. They did not have the book out. Instead, it was in a box off to the side, by some junk. I saw it and offered them $5 for the book (which was about $4 more than the going rate that day). One of the Scout leaders said I could buy it if I kept it in a paper bag and never told anyone that I bought it from the Scouts.

Needles to say, the book has aged - but provides a pretty good snapshot of the '60s revolution (browse while listening to "The Revolution Will Not be Televisied" by GSH... or maybe you beter not... that could induce acid flashbacks!)

the Why Cheap Art? Manifesto

Well, why not? Kelly found this at a street fair in Providence, Rhode Island, about 24 years ago. It is still a classis and one of my favorite pieces of art that we own (and, just to be clear, we really don't own shit - just the stuff we like - like this!)
Damn! Now that I think about it, Kelly always finds the coolest stuff! That's what she does!

The Anchor

The Anchor Bar in downtown New Haven is the kind of place where you feel like you should go and review your notes for your novel or plot a revolution or something. I belonged to a writers group once and we met at the Anchor a few times and it actually felt inspirational. In fact, each one of us were writing stories set in different times (within a 50 year range) and each agreed to include a brief scene in the Anchor, which could include the other storie's characters if we wanted - it was up to the writer. I think the only rule was you couldn't kill another character in the story (which really would have been a huge departure for all of the stories we were writing!) I was actually thinking briefly that my character should have a brief fling in the bar with a character from another book, but that would have changed my book drastically (and would have been waaaaay out of character). Oh well, it was a thought. Check out the Anchor if you are ever in town.

Angels and Cigarettes - November 2009

The lights in the bus
flicker on and off
like they are shorting out
as the bus cruises
down
the dark
night streets.

It’s late
I’m tired
and I don’t recall
even getting on
the bus.
The passengers look
old –
not so much age-wise
as outdated
somehow.

I am in the seat
just past
the rear exit.
So I am
almost
face to face
with a man
who looks
cool – in a retro biker kind of way -
in leather biker jacket
(with colors!)
denim shirt,
leather pants
long
wavy hair
and bushy
goatee
mustache.
“You wanted
to be me…
didn’t you?
But you didn’t think
you were cool
enough,”
he said
and abruptly
stepped off the bus.

I chuckled
to myself
at the odd
one-sided
exchange.
Before I could
give it
a second thought
a woman
was at the door.
Attractive
older
familiar.
Wicked Irish looks,
with thick red hair,
mischievous smile
and
Killer legs
stretching
from her skirt
to her heels.
I know her
from somewhere,
I thought.
Her eyes piercing
as they trained
on mine –
but they
still… looked…
distant.
“You always
Looked at me
Like you wanted me…
I was your
dream girl…”
her voice
almost
sang
the words.
“I was
the best parts
of them all…
All the time.”
The bus stopped
and she was gone.

What the fuck
is going on
here?
I thought.
I must
be
dreaming!

I didn’t want to
look at anyone
so I looked out
the window.
I needed to see
where I was and
where I was going.
But all I could see
outside
was dark.
I felt confused.
I was not in control,
and I
especially
hated
that feeling.
The almost sickening
musty smell,
like old dirty
car cloth
upholstery,
was lingering
heavy
in the air.

Five soldiers
were huddled
in the back
seat.
A scared looking kid
was sitting
in the middle
of the pack.
All tired and
dirty
faces -
like they were all
just back
from battle.
But their uniforms
all looked
so
different.
Like different era
combat fatigues.
World War I
World War II
Korea, Vietnam…
The kid in the middle
was wearing a
Gulf War uniform.
Must have been
a party, I thought,
and looked back
out the window.

“You won’t see much
out there…
not yet,”
said a man
on a seat
nearby.
His skin looked
almost glossy
as it stretched
snugly
on his skull.
The woman
with him –
who looked
about the same
nodded her head
as she chain smoked
cigarette after
cigarette.
I couldn’t look away
right away
and was startled
when I did
to see a man
with long hair
and dark complexion
and what looked like
fresh blood
red and
sticky
on his hands.
“Who are you?”
I asked
(And I
don’t know
why I asked –
he scared me!)
“You could have
saved me,”
he wispered.
“When? How? From what?”
I asked.
“I’ve been right here…
What happened? Are you alright?”
I was getting a little pissed
and extremely
uncomfortable.
“When you had the chance…
all you had to do
was act.
You only needed
to believe you could…
and then do it,”
the man said,
in a soft, barely audible
voice.
This is too
weird
I thought
as the man
flashed a gentle smile
as he
stepped off the bus.
They must
think
i’m someone else.
When I looked over
at the nearby couple
they were gone,
moved to a seat
near the front.

The people riding
the bus
were looking
back at me.
“I am not
the person
you think I am,”
I said.
At the next flicker
of light
they were looking
away…
except
the chain smoking
woman
who just shook
her head.
“I’m not,”
I said, quietly
rocking
to the steady
jerking
movement
of the bus.
I stared
at my hands
clenched
on the railing
in front of me.

I glanced over
to see the couple -
who I now
know
somehow
are older –
sitting nearby
again.
The woman leans
over probably to
get a better
look.
Still smoking
shaking her head.
“Do you think
you maybe
blame us
a little too much?”
The man asked.
“How could I?”
I answered.
“I don’t blame you.
I don’t.
I don’t know what
is happening.
Do you?
Where am I?
When did I get here?”
I finish
but they are gone.
back to the front.
But I didn’t
see them
move.
I could not contain
my emotions.
I felt the knot
in my stomach -
The lump
in my throat -
The tears
on my face.

“I don’t know either,”
the young soldier
in the middle of the pack
said.
I looked back
to see
if he was
talking to me.
But his friends
were patting his
shoulder,
embracing him,
telling him
it was OK.
Between flickers
of light
it looked
as though
blood would
occasionally
wash over
the crew –
showing up
on their hands
faces and uniforms.
The toughness
they showed
with the uniforms
and dirt
and worn looks
was countered
by the fact
that they were
only
kids – young men actually
of 18, 19 or 20,
themselves.

“It’s OK,”
a young girl
of about nine or ten,
sitting next to me
said.
“It’s OK…
really.”
“When did you
sit down here?”
I asked.
“Oh,
I’ve always
been here,”
she said.
“I’ve been here
the whole time!”
She looked
Normal.
Not like the rest.
Very calming.
“Do I know you?”
I asked.
“I’ve always wanted
to get to know
you!”
She said,
taking my hand, with a big smile.
I whispered to her,
“What is happening?
Am I like dreaming?
Am I dead?
I don’t know
how I got here,”
I started to talk,
but she put
her fingers
on my mouth
to stop me
from talking.
“Those things
are not important
any more…
Shhhhhhhh,”
She said.
“Let’s take a bus ride!”
I look forward
trying to focus
on where I was –
and wondering
why – or if –
this little girl
would be traveling
alone
when
between flashes of light
I noticed
the bus driver’s
reflection
in the mirror
starring back
at me.
“Where am I?”
I asked.
“On my bus,” he said.
No shit!
I thought.
“But where are we?
How did I get here?
When…”
He interrupted,
“You never saw me coming,”
he chuckled.
“Coming from where?”
I asked,
but he looked away,
into the dark,
black
front windshield.

I noticed a cat
curled up
on a seat
nearby.
It has probably
been sleeping
the whole time,
I thought,
but looked over
again
to see
it staring back at me.
No matter
what…
Cats are
always
the same.
Bit I somehow
expected
this one
to start
talking.

“Cat’s can’t talk, Daddy,”
the little girl
said.
“But I didn’t
say that…
out loud,”
I said.
“Our stop is next, daddy.
You are ready
to get off now,”
the little girl said.
“We’re getting off
here, son,”
the man said,
as he and the
chain smoking
woman
stood at the door.
“Please tell me…
what’s going on?”
I asked,
exhaughsted,
almost in a
defeated wisper.
“We’re at Bauer Park.
One of your favorite
places
in the world,”
the woman said.
“OK – so you are my parents -
my long dead parents –
and you,”
I looked at the little girl
“Sara?”
She smiled.
“But you took
only one breath
when you were
born…
and then
you were gone.
Is it you?”
She just smiled,
and seemed excited
that I recognized her.
“OK Daddy,
show me your’s and mom’s garden,
and the covered bridge,
and the stream…
Show me
why you love this place.
Come on…”
She had my hand
and pulled me
gently
from the
flickering darkness
of the bus
to the light
of the garden.
“Can they come?”
I asked,
motioning towards
the soldiers.
“They will be off
soon.
They will
visit us later,”
Sara said.
“And you mom,
still smoking?
even here?”
“Don’t start,” she said.

An Instant Literary Classic!

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