Amos was six-foot-five and weighed 300 pounds. The vacant, insincere smile plastered to his lips made it seem he knew embarrassing information about you.
Amidst the titles we didn’t understand—about menopause, bi-polarity, What Color is Your Parachute—one book stood out, like a billboard: The Joy of Sex.
On July 21, 1923, my maternal grandfather was born in a small fishing village in the Bay of Fundy. White Head, so named because of the array of white quartz at the head of the island…
She waved her arm along a cabinet adjacent to the counter, filled with maybe 15 clear glass containers of loose tea, most with names I had never heard of.
The display flashed “Great workout!” and a sense of dread dug its claws deep in my belly. I stepped off the treadmill feeling like I was still moving, my heart doing that flutter thing again.
One day, as we were perusing the want-ads in the Village Voice, my sister remarked that in spite of four college degrees between us, neither was qualified to work a New York City car wash.