“I Know My Crossing Guards” Club

I pass a series of crossing guards on my way to pick up my daughter from school, each one as unique as a Crayola color. The first one up is a short, bald Russian man, about 75 years old with a thick accent. He shakes his head in disdain at anyone who will serve as a forced audience. He complains about teenagers not stopping for … Continue reading “I Know My Crossing Guards” Club