They say love is blind, but in my case, it was simply redacted. To the outside world, and specifically to my husband Gary,…
The ballroom at The Pierre was suffocating, despite the thirty-foot ceilings and the air conditioning blasting at full capacity. It was a sea…
The rain in the Rust Belt didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime stick harder. Inside the double-wide trailer on the…
The air in Newport, Rhode Island, smelled of salt spray, hydrangeas, and old money. At the Sterling Estate—a sprawling Gilded Age mansion perched…
The glass walls of the Romero penthouse in Chicago didn’t just offer a view of the skyline; they served as a reminder that…
The mud of Bavaria in April 1945 did not smell like spring. It smelled of pulverized brick, unwashed wool, and the sickly-sweet rot…
The mud in the Ruhr Valley didn’t just coat your boots; it ate them. It was a thick, industrial gray sludge, a mixture…
The mud of Bavaria in April 1945 did not smell like spring. It smelled of pulverized brick, unwashed bodies, and the distinct, oily…
The war came to Oakhaven, Nebraska, not with the scream of a siren or the thunder of artillery, but with the polite jingle…
The departure lounge at Chicago O’Hare’s Terminal 5 was a study in suspended animation. It was a grey, fluorescent-lit purgatory where time seemed…