"There's no room for the Singer. And besides, you don't sew anymore," her daughter wearily said. The Singer sewing machine had been in every apartment that Bessie lived in. This was not some modern-day portable number that could be shoved into the back of any closet. This Singer was a piece of solid mahogany furniture standing proudly on sumptuously sturdy legs that allowed for Bessie's sumptuously sturdy legs to fit under when doing alterations. The wood had been stained and

Brookdale Hospital in Brooklyn was not a place you wanted to spend a day in, let alone six months. The decades were not kind to the hospital that used to be called Beth-El. Several of the floors were closed off due to age and decrepitude. Patients were stockpiled on the remaining floors, some in wheelchairs three rows deep. By 1995, it was the last place you hoped that 911 would bring you if you called during an emergency. The place was particularly unkind to senior citizens

Michael knew he was different. Unlike other kids, he loved the library. It was his safe place. At thirteen years old, Michael needed a safe place. Michael would rather spend his evenings alone pouring over the stacks of theatre books than play with his few friends or even watch TV. Although there was a local branch of the Brooklyn Public Library only three blocks away, Michael's favorite library was the classic and ornate marble and stone edifice that graced Grand Army Plaza

Both Joanna and Howard told stories. Each, in their own way, got great pleasure or solace and certainly sustenance from their tales. One told the truth and the other told lies. The lies were fanciful and wild and seemed to be true. The truth was fanciful and wild and seemed to be lies. Both changed my perception of what is real. JOANNA In all the years I knew Joanna, I only saw her a handful of times in person. Our pre-internet relationship was conducted on the telephone. But