jxmartin

B E G I N I N G S I was born on the Fourth of March, a time of year in Buffalo, N.Y. when Winter still locks the area in its icy grip. Spring always seemed a long time in coming. At that time, my family lived at 207 Amber St., in a two-story frame dwelling, on the South side of the City. We lived in the shadow of giant steel plants like Bethlehem and Republic. The air smelled like sulfur and anything left outside would soon be covered by a fine layer of soot and metal flakes. No one noticed. It wasn't until many years later, when I first brought my future wife home for Thanksgiving dinner, that I became aware that there even was an odor. Mary is from Rochester and noticed the aroma as we neared the homestead. I guess we just learned to live with it.

MAILBOXES When I was younger, I used to imagine that the mail boxes, on our city street corners, were magic portals. They stand there ever so quietly, with uncomplaining patience. They have the serenity of the inanimate. Many of our neighbors daily fed letters into the swing hinged openings, of these round shouldered blue mailboxes. They assumed that carriers would come and pick up their letters and deliver them to the main Post Office. Then, other clerks would send the missives on to their final destinations. I always thought differently.