“Steve’s brother is coming with his new girlfriend,” Ralph said.
She’s part Puerto Rican, part Sephardic Jew, part Moroccan Moslem & entirely impossible to understand.”
“I’ve heard about her,” Dale sighed. “She’s into the occult. She’ll try to get us involved with things like seances and tarot cards.”
The boys agreed that they’d politely humor Bernice at the party and then fast find someone else to hang with, lest they go entirely nuts.
“Wouldn’t that be a perfect present for someone like her?”, Ralph wondered aloud as they passed a garage sale. “I can’t help thinking she’d like it.”
Stanley and Alice have always considered Brooklyn Botanic Garden, located in Prospect Park, as the nicest place in all of New York.
After 8:00 a.m. Mass at O.L.P.H. last Sunday morning, they set out from Lindenhurst to make the long but worthwhile trip.
“I just like to come here once in a while to hang around and think, with a lot of peace and quiet,” he reminded his wife of thirty years.
“I don’t blame you, honey,” she replied. “Everyday life is so annoying. Sometimes we have to step back and to enjoy all the perfect smells and sights.”
The school year has ended for St. Gabriel’s in Queens. My father drove us to the Port Authority. My mother, my younger sister Mary Anne, and I are now on our way to my grandmother’s house in northeastern Pennsylvania on a Martz Trailways bus.
For a ten-year-old city kid, all this farmland is amazing. The only sound I hear is Johnny Rivers’ “Mountain Of Love” playing quietly on my transistor radio. I wonder what it’s like to ride a tractor instead of a utility bus. I think I’ll count the cows and horses for the rest of the trip.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Land of Confusion.”
Over the course of my school days I had always been quite a reasonably good student. Math and science were the two very definite exceptions to that rule, however. As a high school freshman at St. John the Baptist in West Islip, I somehow got put into a biology class, in spite of the fact that freshman biology was intended for students who were good in science. Mr. Richard Morabito, my teacher, frequently called my mother and complained to her that I could never keep up with the work. He wondered if maybe I should start wearing eyeglasses again. When I was a senior I took Mrs. Joan McGrath’s probability and statistics class. She, like Mr. Morabito, knew that I was a conscientious student but that I just couldn’t handle the subject matter. One of the very last things she ever said to me officially as a teacher of mine was that it would be a bad mistake for me to study math from then on. The next year, as a freshman at S.U.N.Y. Farmingdale, I was a liberal arts major. During my first semester I was forced to take another statistics course. During my first week there the professor insisted upon my dropping out of the course because he knew I’d never be able to pass it. Those are only a few representative examples of the horror story that was my life in math and science classrooms. My late cousin Karen, who was a math teacher, once told me that she could never understand how anyone could possibly be a poor math student, considering that it was so logical. Perhaps that’s my entire problem. I must not be capable of handling courses that are too logically consistent. I appear to require the twists and turns that go with the humanities and social sciences.
Tom, Jim, Burt, Jerry and Wally got together every Wednesday night after work for a poker game. It was an old habit, going back thirty years. Wednesday, for these boys, was a time set aside for gossip, cigars, a few drinks and relaxation. There was only one catch: their wives were sick and tired of all the drinking and cigars. Jerry and Jim came up with the perfect solution though. Each one rigged up a faucet on the fence in his backyard, with a secret compartment for stogies.
“The girls will never figure out our trick,” they assumed.