I spent a winter term abroad teaching on one of Dartmouth’s Language Study Abroad programs in France. We got a ten-day break in the middle of the term and almost everyone skipped town to make good use of our Eurail passes. I palled up with Stanley Weil to visit Nice, Monaco, Florence and Munich. To keep our costs down, we took midnight trains between destinations and, splitting a couple of bottles of wine, slept as best we could on the hard third-class seats.
He had a deck of cards and we wore it out, passing the time between destinations. We played Spades, Hearts, Crazy Eights, Gin and anything else we could remember. At some point we had had enough. All the games had been played out. Continue reading
The birds were first, chirping, flitting through trees
awaiting delivery. They now occupied every available space in the kitchen and dining room. My feet were sore. My back was sore and I was too tired to make a fire.
My mother gave it to me. The daughter of Polish and German parents, (which is a story all by itself) she grew up in Hamburg, a small town outside of Buffalo, New York. A bright, confident, athletic young woman, she was passionate about music and so impressed her piano teacher that the woman gave her an upright Krakauer piano to further her musical talent. 
The official title of Pete’s was “Pete’s Stationary Store.” But, it didn’t really sell stationary; it was more of a newsstand with a soda counter in the back. The cash register was hidden behind stacks of cigarettes featuring every model and make and there was a candy rack conveniently placed within the reach of any four-year old child.
