By Nancy Orans Eder
I was a masquerader —
A fake disguise employing love and energy to smile
hiding the fact that my marriage was disintegrating
Inside. Continue reading
By Lydia LaFleur
Plans to celebrate my birthday were simple enough, inkeeping I thought with the number 88; it wasn’t as if I was going to be 90 when I would be expecting family to put on a bash! I did like the sound of 88, however, and it’s formation into four circles was pleasing to my eye. Continue reading
By Rebecca F. Rikleen
We were not the first owners nor the last owners of Blue Boy. But he was ours. I had been wary of buying a Ford in the first place; Ford the man was such a bigot, so hateful.
But price was right; the car was carefully used, and convenient and within our means. Plus it was a hatchback, great for lugging groceries and treasures from yard sales; the mileage was good. I would overlook the dreaded personality of the namesake, long dead.
Ford was born in 1863. Blue boy was born 91 years after Ford. Blue Boy served us well; we bequeathed him to my daughter Annie when he was 12 years old. Now a year later, granddaughter Emily drove him to show us her apartment in Brooklyn.
At 125th St and First Avenue she slammed into a black sedan. I wasn’t looking; I saw nothing till suddenly an enameled black wall loomed and then, with a jolt, our windshield smashed in myriad fracture lines; paper bags collected around my legs and greasy black smoke spiraled up from the motor. Continue reading