Four Crying Out Loud

My son, Holden, wanted rid of his prohibition haircut. We were in Cincinnati's Clifton neighborhood. It was late. The salons were closed.  I knew there was a small barber shop a few blocks down the street so my daughter, son and I set out to find it. It was still open.  We walked inside to find three black men cutting three black men's hair. There were two tv's blaring the Emanuel AME church massacre.  There were three black men, staring at us, with electric razors suddenly paused in mid air. It was like we were a record on a player and someone had just lifted the needle. We didn't belong and I recognized that right away. I wanted to turn Holden by his shoulders straight back out the way we came but that thought was interrupted by one of the barbers. "Can I help you?" he said. I tried to think up a lie. Ask where the nearest ATM is, ask if they had seen my lost puppy, ask if they could give me directions to the nearest white place. But I didn't lie. "

A two foot tall snowman had been assembled on the lawn in front of our new apartment complex.  It even had a carrot for a nose.  It was the first thing we all noticed as we pulled up to the place.  The reviews of the apartment complex spoke of prostitutes frequenting there.  For a split second, I imagined a scantily-clad woman in fishnets and stilettos, placing the carrot into Frosty's head with her fuzzy-gloved hand.  My daughter quickly broke that thought by shouting loudly, "Maybe kids live here!"  I explained that this complex is comprised mostly of University of Cincinnati students, kids in college.  "Oh." she said. She held the door for us as we were moving the last of the large pieces of furniture into the apartment.  When my daughter passed by her, I noticed that they were the same height.  The two girls smiled at one another briefly.  She was quiet, hadn't lost any teeth, and was Asian.  She was on her way to the car with a man who looked to be he

For as long as I can remember, he called me “Mudpie”.   To him, it was a term of endearment.   I always thought it sounded slighting, but never let on.   After he and my mother divorced, he took me for day visits one weekend out of the month.   We went to the mall, a restaurant, or to the art museum.   In the car, he would slap my knee, squeeze and say “Whad’ya know, Mudpie?”   He seemed delighted in the smallest details of my stories.   I mean, I could tell him that I found a red rock that writes, and he would exclaim “How interesting!”   The gifts always came as soon as he started the car.   I sat poised as he would reach into the pocket of his jacket and pull out a small token of some sort.   It was always a surprise.   It may have been a die cut set of Alice in Wonderland stationary or an antique gold metal razor case with a note tucked inside.   The gifts were never predictable, but always anticipated. He was a handsome man, always nicely dressed, and extremely well spoken