Goodbyes aren’t easy, but sometimes they’re necessary.
If you don’t believe in fixing the immigration system or you ascribe to the falsity of undocumented Mexicans raping and murdering innocent, hardworking Americans, please take the time to read this week’s cover story.
When frustration builds, it needs an outlet. Without one, it seeps out in sometimes unexpected places.
I’m trying. As Richmond prepares to become the center of the cycling universe in mid-September, the hoopla and the rah-rah-bikes-are-good-for-us commotion is in full swing.
My family belonged to a “private” pool when I was growing up. There weren’t any other pools, from what I recall, and I suspect the pool operated like most any other in the rural suburbs. We paid dues. We swam. The “private” label was rumored to be a holdover from years prior that translated to: “no blacks.”
I’m becoming an old fogey. I feel my face scrunching up pretty much constantly. I’m now drinking coffee after dinner. The highlight of my day is listening to Vin Scully talk about the 1965 Dodgers. And my wife and I are starting to wonder: What the hell are we going to do when the kids move out of the house?
With another debate over public transit heating up (see Page 12), expect a good deal of suburban hand-wringing over the cost of adding bus lines in the counties. Adding full-service buses that run deep into Henrico and Chesterfield would cost millions, possibly hundreds of millions.
As quickly as ice-covered roads turn into a springy sop, the best sports month comes rushing in. After deflating footballs and the abuse the NFL inflicts, March Madness has a purifying effect. It’s cleansing, inclusive and fair-minded: Sixty-seven teams get a chance to lose to Kentucky, after all.
In my 20 years of reporting, I’ve made some terrible mistakes. From the seemingly minor and stupid (I once misspelled Bob Dylan’s last name) to quoting a deceased attorney (there really is a plausible explanation for this). I have to work really hard at not screwing up. And I still do. All the time.
Of course he broke his cellphone. My youngest is accident prone, like me, and it was the second time he’d dropped his phone and shattered the glass cover.