Wednesday, September 25, 2013
I arrived in Boston in the fall of 1972. I had left my home in the suburbs of New York City, gone to college in Ohio, and spent the previous 18 months in Kansas. Kansas was virtually like a foreign land to a person from New York City. It was filled with friendly people and endless space. In Kansas, you can see great distances. Much of the land is flat. Trees are sparse and grow along the shallow rivers. Highways are wide and straight. The tallest buildings are silos for storing grain. You can see large weather patterns that may be hundreds of miles away during the day and chain lightning leaping across the sky at night.
I had studied literature and wanted to be a writer. More specifically, I wanted to be a poet. This was not a lucrative career path and I needed to find a way to support myself. In Kansas, I had been a part-time graduate student and part-time Elementary School teacher. Now I was going to a training program in Vermont to get a teaching license. I had three months to fill. I had not learned the art of creative lying. I didn’t want to tell an employer that I was going to stay for a year to get a “regular” job. ...
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(Image: Wikipedia, Boston)