Everywhere I heard different languages, the staccato Spanish of Puerto Ricans with the constant call to “Mira, mira”(look look). Then there was the richly embroidered Yiddish and Russian and Italian
I grew up counting bees and straining chunks of sandstone into empty soup cans. I watched cats play with dead mice and then run away up the block to an
As a young man in his twenties, my father wore a Stetson pulled down at an angle over his eyes. He was a thoughtful man who hid his complexity behind
At the end of June I witnessed a commotion outside my window—droves of orange specks flying in the air. Not one, but hundreds. What were they? For months before, there’d
Martin arrived in this country when he was 11 years old. I have a copy of his steerage papers from Ellis Island. My older sister tells me he had his
“My Dear Cucie Olga,” my father, Martin Weiss pencils in a four-page letterdated August 8, 1939 when my mother is vacationing in Mountaindale, New York with her mother and my