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Empty chairs

In childhood we had a school chair, dark wood, with many deep scratches made by children, desk attached including circular hole for ink bottle, a drawer underneath for books. In youth we had a hammock in which you could lie and roll yourself round and round, becoming encased in hemp like an ampule. In young adulthood I(…)

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A preview of my epitaph

Following are lines written by my great friend Bill Goyan, long dead but lovingly (and evermore) remembered. A writer of great originality from East Texas with unique, rarified sensibilities. The courage he had to experiment with plot and character in his unconventional, heart-stopping work has been an inspiration and will shortly go the limit in my coming(…)

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My ladder to nowhere and me.

The Railroad Station   My non arrival in the city of N. took place on the dot. You’d been alerted in my unmailed letter. You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time. The train pulled up at Platform 3. A lot of people got out. My absence joined the throng as it made(…)

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A weekend I spent with wounded veterans

A weekend I spent with my old friend Barbara several years ago always comes back to me when military hardware, men and women at war, the aftermath of these wars, troubles my mind. Barbara was working for a nonprofit group that, at the time, provided art and theater for ill and injured people. She invited me to accompany(…)

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My father – redux

Last Sunday, thinking it was Father’s Day, I wrote a few lines about my father that I posted along with the photo on the left. In a blink I was scolded: not only wasn’t it Father’s Day, but the baby in the photo wasn’t even me (not that I’d said it was). So: a) since(…)

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My father

 My father taught economics at City College in Harlem, New York for 63 consecutive years without missing a day. That is, until he was 83. Had he been able to teach to the last day of his life he would have, he loved teaching (especially poor, smart, culturally deprived kids like himself) that much. When(…)

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