Parking my yellow convertible on the square, I read the words aloud, “’Inherit shrunken head collection. Pay $10,000 for museum to accept it.’ Aw, man!” “Quit yer whining!” my older brother snickered with sick satisfaction. No matter what game we played, he always appointed himself the banker, setting an immediate tone of domination. He snapped…
A tribute to summer soft serve joints
A few months ago, I was cursing my place in the world. I mean literally, the actual spot where we live here in “Rhode Iceland.” After my husband retired from the Navy, I thought I could handle the harsh, bitter, seemingly endless New England winters, but every time it snows in April (and it does…