Our African adventure jogged a few memories. Stories about my grandfather heard in bits and pieces. Some narrated by his sons, some gleaned from his diaries I stumbled upon.
Whale watching off the east coast of Nova Scotia.
All these years, I had bottled up Conscience, the mistress of my soul, deep under multiple layers of fat accumulated over five decades.
Summer time. Managers at a popular car franchise wilted under the constant pressure of trying to sell their inventory and promote next year’s stock. After much deliberation they hit upon a plan to target new immigrants. They began scouring the countryside for a racecar driver model to promote their new collection.
I am still working on my accent, that elusive 1%. I am now skilled at kissing, shaking hands, and hugging. But I don’t get much of an opportunity to practice my ethnic greeting.