The Trailing Edge

  I am hoping this will be an ongoing series, and that The Urban Blabbermouth will contribute some, too. Back in the 1960s, our closest neighbor was Mrs. Sherman. Her house was corner-wise across the street. She was in her 70s and suffered from "arthur-itis," which apparently was held in abeyance by an advanced medical formula known as Carstairs White Seal American Whiskey. My mother, raised to be polite, joined her in the indulgence whenever we visited her to make sure she was OK. There was a Mr. Sherman, but he apparently spent a lot of time on the road, and I assume Mom thought Mrs. Sherman was lonely, so we spent a lot of time around her kitchen table. I got to drink Pepsi; that's the company Mr. Sherman spent all that time on the road working for. Other than listening to my mother and Mrs. Sherman yak, my other favorite things were walking around her spiral living room rug until I got dizzy, and trying to peek into the two end tables. They were "Pembrooks,"...

                        I recently recalled an incident that took place a couple of decades ago. I was out to brunch with my friend Christopher, his wife Kristi, and their very young son Casey. It was a routine meal, until we became aware of a commotion across the room. Apparently, another patron had experienced a health crisis, quite possibly a heart attack. There was no outcry, but as is typical in such situations, a crowd gathered around the table. Someone was on the floor; someone else was trying to render aid, and someone called 911. We stayed put, not wanting to get in the way and knowing there was nothing we could contribute to the situation anyway. But after a few minutes, Christopher picked up Casey (very young, as I said -- probably no more than one and a half, just barely vocal, much less verbal) and said "I'm taking him outside. He doesn't need to see this." He stayed outside the restaurant with Casey as the ...