by Kevin Alfred Strom
WHILE I WAS in a restaurant the other day with a few friends and their children, I saw another group enter the establishment and take a table nearby. It was a handsome-looking White family, a father and mother with a teenage son and daughter. I was close enough to hear parts of their conversation.
The father was almost a double for a writer I know personally, a rugged-looking brunet of medium height with piercing eyes and ruddy complexion, about 50, with a tall, fine-haired slender blonde wife perhaps ten or twelve years younger. The children were well-behaved, good-looking, and intermediate in appearance to their parents, to whom they bore an obvious family resemblance. They weren’t speaking English.