From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My word, this scratchy wool collar is chafing my neck raw while I fret over the rising price of a five-cent loaf. I gripped the morning paper so tight the ink stained my thumbs, reading how they are still unable to elect coadjutor with that Episcopal Diocesan Convention at Orange in a dead-lock at Midnight. Between the Church’s indecision and the cost of coal, I can barely focus on the waxy, smooth feel of the new Crayola box I bought for the children. Everything feels brittle this winter, as if the very fabric of our lives is thinning like a worn-out flannel sleeve.