Tuesday, August 24, 2004
My Dad, in 1943, at age 7. Dad's parents (below) were poor and lived in Dorchester, the Bronx of Boston, then mostly Jewish but now mostly African-American. Dad's father, a lovely man, had a severe heart attack when Dad was 10, one of many bad breaks, and worked as a fruit peddler. Grandpa was proud of Dad's education and read almost every book Dad ever brought home. Dad's mom stuggled with poverty and with the tragedy of losing a child; she deeply believed socialism would lift up the poor and make the world a better place. She deprived herself of everything, even medical attention, to put Dad through school.
Me and My Holsberg Grandparents:
Unintentional Humor, Part 3
From my friend Pat, Sign Syntax Gone Awry...
In an office:
WOULD THE PERSON WHO TOOK THE STEP LADDER YESTERDAY PLEASE BRING IT BACK OR FURTHER STEPS WILL BE TAKEN
In another office:
AFTER TEA BREAK STAFF SHOULD EMPTY THE TEAPOT AND STAND UPSIDE DOWN ON THE DRAINING BOARD
Outside a secondhand shop:
WE EXCHANGE ANYTHING - BICYCLES, WASHING MACHINES, ETC. WHY NOT BRING YOUR WIFE ALONG AND GET A WONDERFUL BARGAIN?
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