When I was in second grade my family moved to Holland. We lived in a town called Wassenaar and went to school in The Hague (Den Haag) – a big city about 20 minutes drive away.
Every morning, a bus would swing through our neighborhood and pick me and my brothers up on the corner, just around the block from where we lived.
There was a small, circular park across the road with a pair of benches and plenty of thick bushes — the kind you could crawl through or just sit inside for a while, at least as a kid. And this whole scene relaxed in the shade of an old Dutch church with a deep-voiced clock tower that kept the town moving on collective time.
Stories
Scramble
Saturday
What’s going on? “What do you mean?” All these cops. Why are all these cops all over the place? “What?” They’ve been circling the coffee shop for the last hour. “Hunh. Really?” Haven’t you noticed? On motorcyles? Walking past with trained dogs? They seem tense. Don’t you think? Even the dogs seem tense. “I don’t … Read more
The Getaway
This weekend I dropped by to see Mr. Davis (not his real name), the ninety-four-year-old man who lives around the corner. He can’t see much, or hear much, or get around much. But he still has a bright smile. And his mind is sharp. I was interested in hearing from him firsthand what it was … Read more