Life of a Smith

Dearest beloved Maggie, I can barely write the words, but it’s over. Our relationship has fizzled. Our glowing, burning affair lasted so long, against such long odds, that I couldn’t let this moment pass without expressing what our union meant from my vantage point, considering all you gave from yours. For 18 years, you never ceased to emit your truest colors, bright, bold and beautiful. Truly, you were one of the best choices I ever made.

He came toward us with a smile, his curly blond mop-top still banded to keep those wild bangs out of his face when he races, his satisfaction centering on the kid he uncharacteristically swooshed by in the final 60 meters of his long long-distance school year. “I had to do it,” our 16-year-old son said. There was really nothing on the line. It was a junior-varsity 800-meter run at the county meet. Not even the fast heat.

There was a back-corner room in the crowded warehouse at 8250 Preston Court in Jessup, Maryland. The door came open around 12:35 p.m., and those of us in line saw a seemingly headless figure move into the frame, his shoulders coming even with the top. Then, he ducked his head, down and under and out through the opening. All Gheorghe Muresan has to do to make an entrance is walk into a room.

Vikings safety Harrison Smith recorded an interception, a sack and another tackle for loss on Christmas Day to help beat the Lions. (Associated Press photo by Bruce Kluckhohn) On Christmas Day, as the Minnesota Vikings wrapped up the win and Harrison Smith was collecting his flowers, it was like I was celebrating with family. Big-time sports have a tendency to fill followers with illogical ideations of connectedness.

Illustration created by ChatGPT At age 16, behind the wheel of my land yacht 1979 Chrysler Cordoba, I noticed a strangely long line of cars in the rear-view while patrolling a Bumfuck outskirt of suburbia. We were on a hunt. My high school buddy Dave was shotgun, and within minutes we’d literally be staring at the barrel of one. But I’ll get there soon. It was late. We had no idea where we were going. We had nowhere else to be around 9 p.m. on a Friday in 1995.

This site requires JavaScript to run correctly. Please turn on JavaScript or unblock scripts