In the middle of the second major heatwave of the season, the City cut the wildflowers along the footpath.  I mean they cut everything 30 inches on either side of the pavement, but since the flowers were my friends, all I saw was that they cut the flowers, even though they actually mowed indiscriminately.  And it must have been a chore for the labourer in this heat, so his feet were heavy when he made hay of the prettiest parts of the Summer.  But I can't get to that right now; I'm still reeling from the loss of chicory, and the other pinks and yellows and blues whose names I was just beginning to learn. "Program, get your program", I heard the barker call on my way to the bleachers.  I turned once and caught his eye, and looked at the program in his hand and back into his eyes--all the while his eyes following mine--but then he looked back to his hand, and again into my eyes and he said "You can't tell the player without a card"! Did it matter that ...

Coming back from Summer holidays in 1974 a new term was loose on the street.  No more were girls frigid or as nervous as cats or dark horses or up tight.  No, over night they were now stuck up and losing some perennial battle of the bulge and doing special exercises, the bigger the better to fill the sweater, as the schoolyard taunt went.  And the girls said of each other they walked around like a s-h-one-t don't stink.  It is difficult to understand why they were hating on each other so much.  But like good little trolls and girls, we followed along, hair ratted up, belly buttons showing--whether innie our outie be.  Monkey see monkey do. Sweaters were in, too, even thought it was just past Labour Day.  Sweaters were cool unless they were made from a pattern and therefore looked too ethnic.  Style from the Fifties was unforgivable in the age of white platform boots. Somehow life settled down that Fall, and we all got through.  Perhaps...