As expected, your naked face is greeted with stares. A popular response is to make a sharp swerve into oncoming traffic to avoid you.
What is not to love about watermelon? Unfortunately there is, falling in line with other racial realities we’re grappling with this summer.
A storm’s coming so I call the son, see if he wants to go down to the pier and watch it roll in. We have about twenty minutes before bands of rain arrive and the wind picks up. He says he’s in and off we go.
Stories told of everyday people we have lost to the coronavirus encapsulate so much of our country’s current struggles and what we stand to lose every single day.
All the summer fairs may be closed for now but that doesn’t mean you have to be without your favorite fair food.
I finally remembered to bring my phone this morning and, once back home, decided to look for more inspirational words. There were a lot from famous men but I chose women because I’m damn tired of hearing men yapper on about this world. Most of them aren’t helping, anyway.
Me texting my sister: “So the evening news is freaking me out. I’m staying here… I hate this. I really want to get out of Brooklyn.”
Sue: “You will be fine. I promise.”
Faith in my big sister: “I’ll come down to your house.”
I don’t have time to write and cook today because I’m half way down I 95. Instead, I pulled from the archive a post about politicians campaigning at state fairs.
We all agreed that the hollow below would make a perfect place to live if ever the world descends into dystopian reality.
A little less than a month ago, I wrote a post about how history has a pesky tendency to provide a key to what the present and future may look like. 1918 is proving to be quite insistent.