From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I gripped the coarse wool of my trousers, my palms sweaty as I paced past the morning bulletins. The news of those murders in Ireland makes the air feel thick and dangerous, like a "stool pigeon" is lurking behind every streetlamp. Eleven cents for a loaf of bread feels like robbery when the papers are full of talk about the new polygraph and those mechanical men they’re calling "robots." I just want to sit and stitch this Raggedy Andy doll for my son, but the fear of the unknown—from medical miracles like insulin to the rising price of gas—clings to me like a heavy shroud.