All in Classic Columns

Mom's Night Out

Since we didn’t know “the girls,” I imagined them to be a bunch of peroxide blondes who drank too much and danced with strange men. Every year, I worried that my mother would find the girls more exciting than our family and leave us to enter a childless world of smoky nightclubs and seductive music.

St. Patrick's Day. A Short Story.

For years, I've been offering assorted explanations for why I spent three years in Dublin during the early 1980s: To cover a war without going to the Middle East. To avoid appearing in public in a bathing suit. To cure a case of unsightly hand warts. To date guys with Irish accents.

The list changes but almost always contains a kernel of truth.

A Love Story

Maybe it was the chocolate lab puppy. Perhaps it was the parrot.

No one seems to remember exactly what it was about the bachelor who moved into the townhouse next door that first attracted the attention of three inquisitive kids.