From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers ache from the dry winter air as I fumble with the rough-hewn cedar of these Lincoln Logs, a luxury that seems foolish with bread rising to six cents a loaf. I try to distract myself from the headlines about the Kaiser’s guilt by tinkering with the new pop-up toaster, but the mechanical snap makes me jump, half-expecting the crack of a sniper’s rifle or the hum of arc welding from a restless shipyard. The shortwave radio crackles with news of Wilson in France, yet all I can think about is the scratching of my wool coat and the fear that the boys returning from the front are bringing more than just "cooties" back to our crowded streets. If those delegates don't fix this mess soon, I fear the very fabric of our lives will unravel like a cheap wartime sweater.