| |
|
| |
“Summer of ’37,”
Memoir by Fred W. Nagel (July 24, 2008)
The childhood fugue laps at consciousness like the little, dappled waves of Jamaica Bay upon the shore. Everybody sings. The venerable dark-green Oldsmobile, suitcases and cartons lashed to the luggage rack on its behind, bears down like an old stable horse in scent of home. Wheels hum on the steel belly of the bridge. The smell of the sea.
“The Twenty-Bushel Day,” Part 2
By Dave Krusa (July 17, 2008)
The haze cleared. The sky and bay water had turned the same dull shade of blue. Norm felt as though he was in a trance. “There must be something wrong,” he said, “this feels too good.” Every move felt as though it had a clearly defined purpose. He watched the poles making small concentric circles on the surface of the water. The ripples picked up the sun’s reflection, carrying it out in all directions. When he looked down, the water was murky brown, with all manner of fish eggs and jellyfish suspended in layers below him. A small pipefish broke the surface and arched through the air, re-entering without a splash.
“The Twenty-Bushel Day,”
By Dave Krusa (July 10, 2008)
Dead low tide revealed a gray mud flat humped between the Drifter’s Reef Bar and the old folks’ home on the far shore. Fish that foraged too long in the head of the harbor were trapped by the receding water. They lay baking in the heat of the late August afternoon.
“A Terrific Day for Pinchik,”
By Peter Nord (July 3, 2008)
Pinchik often spent time trying to think of something he was terrific at. Or something he did at least once that was terrific.
“Tom’s Story,”
By Carol White (June 26, 2008)
Tom Hagen. Hardly anyone remembers that name these days, but for many years I was consigliere and chief attorney to the infamous Mafia family, the Corleones. Vito Corleone, also known as the Don or the Godfather, and his wife took me in when I was an orphaned child after their oldest son, Santino (or Sonny as he was known), became friendly with me playing stickball on the streets. We were both 11 at the time (I was born in 1916, not 1911 as you may have read) and I’d run away from the orphanage figuring anything had to be better than being whapped three times a day by angry nuns.
“Letter to a Cousin,”
By Mym Tuma (June 12, 2008)
After serving four years in World War II, your grandfather never hung a flag; said he didn’t hang a flag because he was the flag — he’d been there — and until you’re willing to die tomorrow, don’t tell others to fight a war. As a young man in the Navy, he was an aerial photographer who flew in a bubble under an airplane so his nose was inches from the corrugated metal strips when he landed. Back from distinguished duty in the Pacific islands, Sal Bock and his wife, my mother’s sister Helena, had their first child on Aug. 12, 1946. Marjorie fulfilled their wildest expectations. She was a poster child for the spirit of love, wearing lace wings sewed to her Dr. Denton’s, a tinfoil halo pinned over her blond curls when her father took a photo of his little angel for the Christmas card. She turned out to be their only child.
“Three Square Inches of Nothing,”
By Leonard S. Bernstein (June 5,2008)
CONTINUED FROM LAST WEEK
So she flipped the pages, turning toward the back of the book, and she came upon Malevich’s “White on White.” She had never seen it before, and it stunned her: an all-white painting, like a tile on her bathroom wall. She was not unfamiliar with abstract art, but she had never considered that an actual work of art, apparently well known, could be nothing but white.
“Three Square Inches of Nothing,”
By Leonard S. Bernstein (May 29, 2008)
There were two factions in Clancy’s Bar: the steelworkers and Vladimir. Vladimir was an art historian, a subject about which he would talk endlessly, in no way concerned with who was listening. It was fortunate, because no one ever was.
'A Very Nice Hotel'
Memoir by Adrienne Kitaeff (May 22, 2008)
The Pinball Machine Over the clinking of silver spoons in glasses of tea and cups of coffee, over the swishing of cards shuffled, dealt . . . over the passionate chatter of elderly Yiddish voices seated at square tables in the card room of the Brookside Hotel, Loch Sheldrake, N.Y., you could probably hear me . . . playing pinball.
'The Macaroni Necklace,'
Memoir by Roberta Klopman (May 8, 2008)
When I was 23 my mother died; my daughter Debbi was 6 months old. During the year prior to her death, my mother would say she only wanted to live to see my baby. At night I would sit next to Debbi’s crib crying. She would never know her grandmother and her grandmother would never see her grow up.
'Pre-Nup'
By Robert Boris Riskin (May 1, 2008)
“I want you should come to my office,” Moe Braden said.
“What is it? Why can’t we do it on the phone?” I asked.
“Is it so geferlach if I ask you to come to my office?”
|
| |
|
|
|