The two weeks I spent in that small town on assignment, I saw no blacks except for two older women regal in every way,
Like the poor the sparrows we will always have with us, my neighbor lady tells me as she feeds the birds
You can learn a lot, both true and false, in a dingy all-night diner where old men gather at a table in back
Only the blind man with his leader dog and tapping cane stops when the homeless man standing near the curb
A lovely neighborhood this Sunday afternoon is rocked again by random gunshots. The shots make Bertha wonder, as she sips tea in her old rocker,
In England they call it moving house packing everything going someplace else bigger better
I tell you it’s not easy being a cat in Colorado especially on this farm where I stopped on my way to California.
When you have an hour to live what matters then is Christ in a pyx in the vest pocket
Ducktail haircut back in the Fifties made you a rebel without a cause with all your friends.
It isn’t a flophouse where Fred lives now but he calls it that a month after moving in and seeing his fellow
What we are not who we are matters to the world. Who we are not what we are
Jim met an old friend from college days long after both retired. They were classmates on the beautiful campus,
Every day the same play. The moment I rise, the first act begins, the same plot
They’ve been here for years two blue jays who live in our yard year round. In winter they’re silent at the feeder but screeching
The speaker is Phil Burns, owner of the brokerage firm that Owen Mitchell has had money invested with for years. Owen’s not rich and not poor. He just prefers the action of the stock ma...
