On Clearwater Lake Road, there’s a fork. To get to Gerson’s U-Pick-It, you turn right. But I got turned around in my head and drove left . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
The red brick bungalow on the South Side of Chicago was exactly as I remembered: blue-and-white tile in the kitchen, white metal cabinets, gray-and-pink ceramic in the bathroom . . .
Cattle used to walk to market. After roundup, we’d trail them to a railhead, get them sold, loaded on trains, and shipped back east. Coming out on the train with the cattle was for young hands, the ones Boss could trust. So much has changed. We loaded onto diesel trucks this year and chauffeured cattle to market . . .
The Del Coronado is a stupid name for a bar in Indianapolis. Especially in Grace Tuxedo Park. Especially in March . . .
The grave is waist-deep when the cramps start . . .
He wasn’t sure of the name—Michelle, Danielle, one of those. They’d only meet eight hours earlier . . .
I can’t get out of my seat belt fast enough. . . .
February is like Tuesday: second best, like me. January at least has the distinction of being first and has that New Year’s resolution hype going for it, and Mondays are loved for being hated. But February is just dirty snow with sky to match, and Tuesday is Monday’s everlasting yawn . . .