The finals were done and not a moment too soon. It was 2004, and I had made it to yet another last day of school. On the porch of my portable at Amon Carter-Riverside High School, I was one exhausted teacher but deeply happy to have notched one more year in my belt. As always, a couple of stragglers came by to say
Fort Worth Weekly
iStock.com
Every morning, first thing, I take the dog for a walk. In fall, we wade through dead leaves, a downside of living in the older tree-lined hood of
Riverside. When the wind is blowing, it’s truly a sight to behold. Leaves tumble in a blizzard of orange, red, and yellow. On my slate-gray street, dead leaves come back to life, and leap like a corps de ballet spin, double, even triple pliés, pirouetting on one stem.
One morning, after watching this wind-powered dance recital, I had a hunch and turned down a street. The dog was agreeable, as she always is to anything that lengthens our walks. I had something more in mind, and, sure enough, one of my Trumpster neighbors had finally