by A. M. Dellamonica
At seventeen, it was music. Guitar.
Then, at twenty-four: speechmaking. Rabble-rousing, his mother had called it. Binding a group of listeners — big, small, middling — with his voice. Inspiring the local grocery clerk to dump her useless husband. Selling roses in boxes on lonely street-corners. Swaying a strike vote at a fish packing plant on the East Coast.
Stupid, dangerous skill. What had he been thinking? (Continue Reading…)