My late friend Jane’s late father was a colorful man. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. But colorful. For instance, if something went well, or if he wanted to accuse someone of being a slippery character, this (warning: not refined) was…
We meet once a month on Frankfort Avenue for Janie Day. My late friend Jane’s brother, some of her friends, and I meet for lunch in memory of her, always on Frankfort Avenue, because it’s packed with interesting places. Lots of doors to photograph. These…
After Mom had her stroke, she did therapy. She had retired from a management position and had taken courses in motivation. She was also a natural-born cynic. So she used to snort dismissively when she accomplished a simple task and her therapist crowed, “Good job!”…
