2 minute read

Ad Index

Next Article
book reviews

book reviews

MEGA STORE PrINTeD bY UNION LAbOr IN IOWA

LV Logo Shirt (Premium Heather): $23

Advertisement

music Video cable Television Station Shirt (creme, Purple): $23 Little VIllage Logo Shirt (Heather blue, Premium Heather): $23

THe PerFecT GIFT!

bat babies Shirt (White): $23

Tell the Truth change the World, LV and America Needs Journalists coasters: $2.90 Fuckin Horticulture Day Shirt (Premium Heather): $23

Little Village Hoodie (black): $41

THeY’re bUTTerY SOFT

Locl News Knuckles Shirt (black): $23 Little Village 20th Anniversary Sweatpants (black): $35

Letters & Interactions

LV encourages community members, including candidates for office, to submit letters to Editor@LittleVillageMag.com. To be considered for print publication, letters should be under 500 words. Preference is given to letters that have not been published elsewhere.

Excerpt from “The Caretaker,” a Christmas story submitted by Tom Gingerich

The old man was on his knees busily mulching one of Oakland’s expansive flower beds when he noticed the SUV approaching in the brisk, early November air. Slowly negotiating the narrow, winding roads traversing the hillside, it pulled up near him. A young man emerged, a leather-bound notebook in his hand, and began walking toward him. The older man slowly stood and tossed his hand spade into a nearby wheelbarrow.

“Caretaker,” the old man volunteered, touching his chest, moving forward. “Michael Thoreau. May I help you?”

The young man smiled at him and offered his hand in the early morning chill. “Good to meet you, Michael. I’m Craig Summerhill,” he said. They shook. The old man’s hand was callused and hardened from working long hours. Craig wondered how a man of his age (he looked to be in his seventies) could have such a strong grip and still be working at such a physical job. His scruffy beard and tattered jacket and jeans showed his dedication to the landscape.

“I’ll bet you know quite a bit about this cemetery and its history, don’t you?” he asked. “How long have you been working here, Mr. Thoreau?”

“Call me Michael,” he said, turning to his right and scanning Oakland’s vast expanse, a contented look on his weathered face. Craig followed his gaze and saw the green, peaceful hillside falling far away to the east, densely covered with towering oaks, maples and white pines—with

This article is from: