While my husband snapped photos of the flag, I stood in silent debate with Big Ed. And then I spied another Confederate flag; an unwelcome sensation came over me.
Chicago, 1932. The night before he would knock Ernie Schaaf unconscious, the second time a fighter would die from one of Max’s blows. We were standing at the bar.
These idle moments when we used to be alone with our thoughts are being decimated by devices. A casual but crucial meditative dimension in our lives is disappearing.
Often the way our society treats "senior citizens" assumes that as bodies age, individuality decreases. But aren't whiskers and white socks a sign of unique wisdom?
Worshipping with families of Antiochian Christians in Philadelphia, you are an interloper. At the coffee hour, they pile your plate with pastries—"you are new, yes?"