Pat's Stories

How unlikely, to wander alone through an abandoned cemetery in a little city you know only as a visitor, and to kneel at the etched...

The old green station wagon complained its way down Clinton Avenue, past the boarded-up brownstones with the stoops ripped off.  Here and...

“I can’t sew on a button,” my mother used to like to say. Consequently, we didn’t have a pin cushion nor a needle and thread nor a pair...

The Mighty Hudson, at Albany, was fed, in the old days, by streams that flowed out of the hills, to the left and right of the town, and...

The twins, Billy and Bobby, had been allowed to have breakfast with their cousin Mary, in her bedroom: toast and tea, oatmeal and a bowl...

This story is told by John O’Hara, who left Ardee, Ireland for America in 1844, when he was about 23 years old.