The media is suffocating, clogging the roads and parking lots with bright lights and satellite dishes and polished professionals putting on too much makeup in their caravans before venturing out to stick a camera in our weary faces.But I don’t want them to go away. Because as hard as it is to see my quiet sleepy town on the 24 hour news cycle, it is far far worse to turn
Irene: not the slut I thought she was (a hurricane story)
Hurricane Irene was a one-night stand like no other. No flowers, no drinks, no nothing. We barely made eye contact. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. In the morning it was over, and we realized just how she trapped us in her wrath. Irene only screwed the beginning of our road, successfully trapping 18 families with no way out. And no way in, should an emergency arise. Which it didn’t, for
We Lost a Good Guy
My town is grieving. Again. We lost one of the good guys. The really, really good guys who makes you want to be a better person every single day. You know those dads. The ones that don’t seem to have a job? They’re everywhere: coaching, open house, clinics, dance recitals. Football fields, lacrosse games, art shows. They not only have time for their own kids, but they make time for
My Town Strikes Again
I wrote a while back about how my town works when crisis hits. How friends, neighbors and strangers come out of the woodwork to make life happen while those inflicted with temporary – or life altering – chaos contemplate the next few hours, days, weeks, and months. Listen folks: my kid broke his arm. Snapped it in half, right above the elbow. It was nasty, gross and made his dad
My Town
This is my town where backyard finagling and barbecue lead to stacked teams while deserving athletes and families are left outside looking in. This is my town where police blotters are scoured for names of the afflicted, and sighs of relief echo when we escape another week unscathed. And this is my town where one terrible phone call alerts the gossip mill of a sick kid, a dead spouse, a tragic accident,