Author: Kate Clinton

ONE WARM MORNING in late August 1992, I was walking down the narrow path from our house to the street in our densely populated little neighborhood in Ptown. I heard my neighbor, a retired fisherman yell, “Kitty! Hey Kitty!” All the old Portuguese guys called me Kitty. Peter trundled…

I MISSED SCREAMING. When I taught in upstate New York, I used to pick up my little nieces on Saturday mornings and take them with me to the car wash. We pretended we were in a horror film. By the time those big steamy, sudsy strips started slapping the car, we…