From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sound
The newsboy’s hollering about a fresh German offensive toward Paris makes my heart hammer harder than the industrial clatter of the passing streetcars. Bread is up to six cents a loaf, and every time I hear Richard Whiting’s "Till We Meet Again" whistling from a neighbor’s window, I’m reminded of how many of our boys are already trapped in that muddy no man’s land across the sea. I retreated inside to clear the floor, nearly tripping over the jagged wooden cabin my son left scattered; those Lincoln Logs cost me a fortune, but I’d pay anything for a moment of quiet play. Even in the safety of the parlor, the air feels heavy with the static of a brewing storm and the ticking of a clock that sounds like a countdown.