Arnie Reisman
Bright and early one morning I drove down to the courthouse in Edgartown and walked through the doorway under those inscribed words that smack of a Marx Brothers routine: County of Dukes County Courthouse.
For my father and my uncle, bowling offered a more athletic alternative to canasta. They joined the men’s bowling league and brought me along for good luck, or practice.
This haiku came to me after my last phone call with my Uncle Leo. In fact, it was my last phone call with him, period. He died on the last day of 2013. I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but it was a blessing.
It’s not that I’m risk averse — I prefer predictability. I appreciate a pleasant sameness in my daily routine. Blissful in the calm, I can get things done.
It was a dark but not stormy night. Just a merry crispness in the air. It was Saturday, two days after Thanksgiving, around the dinner hour. We were all snug in our post-tryptophan haze in Vineyard Haven when suddenly all hell broke loose outside. Here’s the play-by-play.
He slid my article across his desk right at me. “Not everything’s funny. You want to be a wise guy or a journalist?” he said. “Why can’t I be both?” I snapped.