Something odd and wonderful has happened recently—I’ve been in touch with people from my hometown, a small town in Upper New York State—Gloversville.

I grew up on Baker Street, a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town. My house was at the top of the hill and from our windows we had a view of the foothills of the Adirondacks. An arch of sugar maples lined the length of the street—which was a dead end, only one block long, and so quiet that the neighbor’s beagle could take a nap in the middle of the road and he’d be perfectly safe.

I was interviewed over the phone by a young reporter from the local newspaper, the Leader-Herald, had a front-page article about The Journalist— our forthcoming book about my brother in Vietnam. It’s a nice article.

I didn’t know that the article had been published until I received a note from the granddaughter of a woman who lived in the house across the street from my family home. I remember her as a middle age wife and mother. Now she is age 99, and she still lives in that same ‘50s ranch-style home.

Then, just this week, I got an email from another Baker Street neighbor—the younger sister of a boy who was my age. Her brother was a rascal when we were little. I remember his chasing me down the street while he had a dead rat dangling from his fist (or maybe it was a mouse). 

A little while later, I got a call from this “boy.” We are both old now. I haven’t talked with him in more than 60 years. I was thrilled.  All the while that we talked, I kept picturing him as I knew him—a smiling, round faced, pink-cheeked, blond boy.

I’ve lived in Minnesota far longer than my time growing up in Gloversville. But, even so, Gloversville is still, and always will be, my hometown.

Here’s the link to the article:

https://www.leaderherald.com/news/local-news/2020/05/the-journalist-story-of-a-gloversville-native/