So there you are at the theater, with your family, having spent a couple hundred dollars for the privilege of sitting in the rear of a balcony, now called a mezzanine, because at $55 a seat, mezzanine has a far sweeter sound. The French word is elegant - and also deluding.
But you don't care, because this is a Special Occasion. You're here to relax, to enjoy yourself and become immersed in the performance.
Read MoreThe noise has stopped, finally. Or is it only an intermission?
I look out the window and see the men across the street, talking together. Half the yard is still covered with leaves. They and The Machine have been working for hours. The whining, unremitting drone awakened me early, far too early on a non-work day. The sound was like pain. I wanted to run from it. But I couldn't. It filled the house. It filled me.
Read MoreIf she were a person, she'd be 13 now, a teenager, seeking her identity, testing boundaries, being a bit of a pain in the neck. Her behavior in human terms is, therefore, perfectly normal. She is just going through a stage, I tell my husband who didn't buy the stage bit for his kids and now refuses to accept it for a dog. She is totally out of control, he counters. And guess whose fault that is?
Read MoreYou have to see this through three sets of eyes.
There's Frankie Rodriguez, 19, hot stuff, a right-handed pitcher last season for the Red Sox' Single-A Carolina League affiliate in Lynchburg, Va. Scouts look at him and see the majors. His career prospects are soaring. He can taste success.
Of course, he attracts fans. Young, pretty girls cheer him on the field and wait for him after the game. He has his choice. On the night of Aug. 24, he gives a pair of girls who've followed him from game to game all summer long, a ride home. One of the girls says she doesn't want to go home, that she'd rather go to Rodriguez's apartment instead. When she gets there, she asks her friend to leave Rodriguez's bedroom so that they can have sex. Afterward, he drives both girls home.
Read MoreWe are talking about going to bed early and pulling the covers over our heads and closing out the world and hibernating until May.
Only it's just talk. We can't hibernate. Morning comes; the clock says it's morning, but it's hard to tell. The day is gray. Our mood is gray. The trees are bare, black, bone thin. We are bone-weary. Burdened.
It's cold. It's damp. Thanksgiving looms. Then it's Christmas with all the shopping, spending, racing. For what? For whom?
Read MoreI expected him to be angry, furious, out of control. I expected him to be screaming and yelling "Why."
I should have known better. I have never seen him angry. Wounded, puzzled, defeated, yes. But I have never seen hate in his eyes.
Not the first time I met him, shortly after his daughter's death, when I drove to his house and sat on his couch and looked through albums filled with photos of a beautiful, smiling little girl.
Read MoreRosemary calls for directions Sunday afternoon as I'm sitting at the kitchen table clipping a story about "smart cars."
Smart cars - as opposed to dumb cars - are automobiles which have built-in computerized road maps on their dashboards. Little sensors in the car's wheels actually measure distance traveled and a built-in magnetic compass instructs the driver of a car, in an R2D2 voice, how to get from point A to point B.
Read MoreI'm at a shoe store at the check- out counter when a boy who works there walks over to the register and tells the girl who is waiting on me that he's going outside for a cigarette.
The boy looks young, no more than 17. He's thin and cute and reminds me of my son at that age.
Read MoreYves Alexandre writes simply and truthfully; I do not want to change her words. I want to repeat them because they beg to be heard; but I have to compress them because of space.
The 17-year-old student at Somerville High wrote her story for the September issue of the 21st Century, a newspaper published in Newton, written entirely by teens. Alexandre's story is compelling, a disturbing first person account of racism.
Read MoreFact and fiction. They blend. A person steps into the sun at high noon and he and his shadow are one. Both exist. Both are seperate entities, but for a moment they merge.
Schuyler, population 400, is fact. It's a tiny town nestled among the mountains in Nelson County, Virginia. Walton's Mountain is but a shadow of Schuyler, a creation of its most famous son, novelist and screen writer Earl Hamner.
Read MoreA guy walks into a health club, smelling of onions and cigarettes, a clue that he's not stopping by for a workout, though God knows he could use one. He's also carrying a briefcase, not a gym bag, a sure sign of trouble.
He asks for the owner, opens his briefcase and when the owner appears introduces himself and hands him an attractive brochure, which has on its cover drawings of people dancing, people riding a stationary bike, a set of barbells, a racquet, goggles and racquetballs.
Read MoreNo except here. Just a well-I-was-really-off-the-mark-with-this-prediction! The anything goes era continues.
Read MoreI phoned her the other day to ask how her pregnancy is coming along.
"I'll be glad when it's over," she said in a weary voice. "I'm a nervous wreck. There are so many things that can go wrong. I can't wait for this baby to be born."
My friend is having her second child, but this is her third pregnancy. A year ago she miscarried, so all during the early weeks of this pregnancy the possibility that she might again miscarry kept her joy on hold.
Read MoreA child is born, a normal, healthy, beautiful child. He rolls over when he should, sits up like all babies his age, crawls, stands, walks, says "mama" and "dada," and when he smiles, he lights up a room.
But when he's about a year-and-a-half he stops using words, stops looking at people and doesn't reach out anymore. He doesn't smile. He frowns, screams, bites his hands, bangs his head on the floor and tears at his face and his hair. He repeats this behavior day after day.
What causes this? No one has an answer. Neither the cause nor the cure of autism is known.
Read MoreI wish I could remember more about that Christmas Eve. I can recreate the room: We are at Caryn's parents' house, at their traditional after-church Christmas party, renowned for its homemade egg-nog. I can picture the punch bowl in the middle of the table, hear the clinking of glass and the laughter of the crowd, smell assorted colognes and the sweet scent of pine.
I can see Caryn's face, a child's face, no make-up, not even lipstick, freckles dotting her nose, a grin in her eyes. I can even make out what she's wearing: a plaid jumper, a white blouse. She is 19. She is a child.
Read MoreI wish I could remember more about that Christmas Eve. I can recreate the room: We are at Caryn's parents' house, at their traditional after-church Christmas party, renowned for its homemade egg-nog. I can picture the punch bowl in the middle of the table, hear the clinking of glass and the laughter of the crowd, smell assorted colognes and the sweet scent of pine. I can see Caryn's face, a child's face, no make-up, not even lipstick, freckles dotting her nose, a grin in her eyes. I can even make out what she's wearing: a plaid jumper, a white blouse. She is 19. She is a child.
Read MoreIt's here somewhere, I know it. I put it in a safe place on my desk. In the letters to be answered pile? In the pocket of my daily planner? In my notebook?
No, it's in none of these places.
Read MoreThey came to talk about their friend. Fifteen women drove from Dorchester to Braintree last Wednesday evening after a day of tending to their children, their homes and their jobs to sit in another friend's home and try to explain to a stranger how special Michelle Kennedy was.
"No matter what was going on in her life, she'd always say, "But what about you? How are you doing?"
"She was always there for me."
"She was my best friend."
Read MorePROUT'S NECK, Maine - The DNA men are inside. It's 5:30 p.m. and they have been at it all day: trading information, speculating, extrapolating, talking nuclei and double helixes, trying to decipher the genetic code of life.
It is noble work they do. Their research will improve, even save people's lives.
But in the meantime, there's today, Oct. 3, a glorious, sunny, warm Indian summer day, set down in the middle of fall.
And they are oblivious to it.
Read MoreThis isn't what you want to read on a Sunday morning, or on any morning. It's yet another horror story about suffering people thousands of miles away. We don't want to know about any more suffering people. We've got enough problems: not enough money to make ends meet; not enough jobs to go around.
Cities exploding. Hope imploding. Locked doors in the house, even when you're home. Locked doors in the car, even when you drive. No stopping to help anyone; no looking around. People weird, ready to attack. Trouble in the schools; trouble in the streets; homes aren't havens; church doors are locked; Cancer, AIDS, hurricanes. We don't need more problems!
Read More
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