‘How’s the chowder?’ ‘Like Bookbinders, Tom. Best in town.’ She was going to get into this. ‘Corned-beef looks good.’ ‘It is.’ ‘We...l, then, chowder and the boiled New England plate, maybe some hot tea?’ ‘Right.’ And she walked back to the kitchen. There was a disused New York Times in a pile of discarded papers by the door, and I walked over to give it a look-see. Another article about Dad and his heart attack – still front page, too – and an editorial about what it meant for the coming. It was a cold winter. A cold, cold winter. Snow fell from the sky like no tomorrow, and it was an unusual time. Out west, the time of love, peace, happiness, and too much fucking pot was starting to really come into full bloom. But that wasn't here.Here was New York City, Manhattan. A Jewish ghetto on the Lower East Side. No, it isn't as bad as it was 60 something years ago. Living conditions have improved some. My mom worked at home, and my dad was a wholesale clothing salesman who wasn't home. More

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