Written by SEAN S. REINHART
© 1994-2025
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Through a bubble, darkly
I will never forget the day we moved to Hayward, California. It was October 1979. I was seven years old. There was a huge statue of a lumberjack on the side of the highway, leaning forward on a street closely crowded with pavement and buildings and cars. There were no trees anywhere in sight. I…
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Ear shot
The thing I remember most about that experience wasn’t the oddly comforting feeling of being nestled inside the futuristic-looking MRI chamber, nor was it the technician’s clipped, rather stern verbal instructions over the intercom reminding me to hold still, nor was it the incredibly loud and knocking racket the machine made. What I remember most…
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Red lines in the sand
My grandmother still vividly recalls and occasionally tells me the story of how my grandfather had made all the arrangements to buy a brand-new home in San Lorenzo. This was during the post-war “Baby Boom” era, a time when thousands of young veterans were buying newly built homes and getting in on the ground floor…
