From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sound
The scratchy phonograph keeps blaring "I Didn't Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier," and every time the needle jumps, I fear it’s a sign the draft is coming for us. Bread has climbed to a lousy six cents a loaf, and between the price of coal and the shouting newsboys down on the corner hollering about the Turks advancing on Aden, my nerves are frayed thin. I can hardly even walk through the department store without hearing the shrill cries of children begging for that new Raggedy Ann Doll with her red yarn hair. I just clutched my purse and hurried past, the cold December wind whistling like a ghost through the telephone wires overhead.