Long time readers will hardly be surprised to know that the saying “as the tree is bent, so is the tree inclined” resonates with this poor author. A more ominous restatement is “as ye sow, so shall ye reap.” Am I being over sensitive to be concerned about the section
I never thought I wrote well. This is not false modesty. Nor am I looking for complements. I never thought I wrote well because, to be perfectly honest, I did not. In the time capsule that doubles as my office closet, I recently unearthed 40-something year old correspondence from my
“Colonel Mustard killed Mr. Body in the billiard room with the candlestick”–began no mystery novel ever. The entire genre is called “whodunit” because the joy of reading is trying to figure out–or in my case waiting to be told–who did what to whom and why. The whole point of a
Ellen and Sam fell in love. No surprise there. They had worked together for years, were friends before they started dating. They had everything in common: careers in education, commitment to community service, even a shared fondness for miniature labradoodles. Sam was 45, Ellen 29. But the difference in their
It is well known–and possibly true–that Stephen Hawking’s publisher warned him about using mathematical formulae in his book. “For every equation, you will lose half your readers” so the story goes. If a gentle “e = mc2” can cause people to stop reading, I can only imagine how many of
If you think no one cares about you, try missing a car payment. If you think no one knows you’re alive, see what happens if you overlook your mortgage. Similarly, if you think that homework is about mastery of academic material, just neglect to turn in an assignment. Because homework is
My dad was weeping in his hospital bed. Being the thoughtful, dutiful son that I am I told him to stop thrashing around. “It’s 3:00 am,” I pointed out. “Some of us have to work in the morning, you know.” It depends who you ask, but in my family we have
Noises usually associated with the trenches of the First World War were coming from somewhere deep within my car. Clearly, something was amiss with the combobulator. Or possibly the framistan. My liberal arts degree safely in a drawer, I called a buddy of mine, the assistant service manager of a
Ellen and Sam fell in love. No surprise there. They had worked together for years, were friends before they started dating. They had everything in common: careers in education, commitment to community service, even a shared fondness for miniature labradoodles. Sam was 45, Ellen 29. But the difference in their
I’m not saying this happened. But you can’t say that it didn’t. You weren’t there. (I usually detest arguments of the form “How could you know unless we’re the same person?” but let’s make an exception for a vignette about a man and his dog.) The only backstory you need
Copyright © David Altshuler 1980 – 2022 | Miami, FL • Charlotte, NC | (305) 978-8917 | [email protected]
