From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers ache from the biting January frost, rubbing the coarse wool of my coat while I stare at the station sign. Gas has climbed to $0.15 a gallon, and with these "political pirates" in New York tearing the parties asunder, I fear my pocketbook won't survive the winter. I retreat home to find my boy playing with those new notched Lincoln Logs, the rough-hewn wood splintering under his small thumbs. We need deeds not words from our leaders before this talk of war turns us all into ghosts, leaving nothing behind but toys and empty cupboards.