One of the passengers getting off the Grimsby stage, a young man of perhaps twenty years of age, somewhat handsome, was strangely hatless and frowning.

December gave us both a gray day, thick as hardpan, sitting-down thick, a neutral sadness runningpole to pole, a day that cried for work or laughter.

In the heart of Chicago’s new butchering center, in a ramshackle apartment in a ramshackle house, a truly destined cowboy was born to a hard-working Scots-born butcher and his wife.

The only thing between me in Charlestown and Eddie Shore and the Bruins in the Boston Garden back there in 1935 was the Warren Avenue Bridge

It was to be an eventful day, that hot August Saturday in 1936 in Saugus, Massachusetts.

This star reconnaissance began on the fourth of July, the quick morning soft as a fresh bun, as warm, air floating up the stairs and coming across my bed in the smell of burnt cork

Ray Canfield, with one bad arm but at the wheel of a Rapid Transit bus for his twentieth year, and nursing a life-long love of dogs, saw the mutt down beside the Cliftondale bus shelter, in the lee of a strong, breezy November rain coming close to sleet.

As all accidents are about to happen, or strange encounters take place, fate stands at the edge of the road waiting to announce itself, an unseen signpost, an unseen hitchhiker.