My mom, Diane O’Brien, has provided an article for this week. The Nightly Drive Home It’s dark at 7 when I leave Don’s house, one or the other of us the winner of that night’s ongoing RummiKube game. The way home has become a familiar one, a drive I.
July 3, 1970 was a big day for Wally and I, the closing on our house. Married just three months, we were finally moving in together. I weighed 123 pounds and still had both my own knees. He was still the skinny guy I see in the photos from 1957, his.
I’ve developed a habit of listening to cable news all day long. It’s the way I filled the house with voices after Wally’s voice was gone. Now it’s just automatic: start the day with Morning Joe, end it with Rachel Maddow (if I’m still awake) with a.
We all have it, from the guy who lives out of his backpack or grocery cart to the neatly organized home complete with file drawers and bookshelves. Stuff. We all have it until or unless catastrophe strikes and a tornado blows it all to the next.
Richard Glock died early last Friday. As his four grown children said in the lovely message they posted on the LBB, “poetically, his passing came 12 years and one day from the date our mom, Joy, passed. . . although in true Richard style, he made.