BY HARRY WAITZMAN Does it matter the lake is manmade, not carved by an ancient glacier, but by shovels in hands of immigrants? A flotilla of ducks moves smartly and I spy them through boughs of oaks. The banks of Swarthout shade them. In a V formation, the leader looks forward, the […]
BY HARRY WAITZMAN A wiff of Spring’s pollen tickles my nose, Many storms ago, Crosby’s pool filled with leaves, this year his grapevines are thicker than wrists, his thumbs and pinkies measured sturdy reds. The world of the 30s changed barns into homes; In the 90s homes became castles along the Road. Copperheads bite […]
