Posts By: J Hardy Carroll

Arguing with Moshe

“I appreciate Eretz Yisroel,” she said, “but not Medinat Yisroel.” He raised his eyebrows over the black glasses frames. Aside from the tan, he looked exactly as he had in Brooklyn. “A difference you see? Please,” he said, beckoning. “Enlighten me.” She saw she had offended him, but this was a cherished opinion, a debate

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Grandaddy Cat

Grandaddy Cat was likely the smartest man in North Carolina. It was him outsmarted old King Duke and put himself at the top of the heap of tobacco growers, him who made the most money a season, year after year. So why you never hear of him? Why you see that King Duke name on

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A Superstitious Lot

Scott looked up from the heap of papers as Lieutenant Shackleton came into the cabin. “Well?” he asked, his voice brittle. “The dry dock did some good, Captain, but she’s still taking on water.” Scott passed a hand over his tired face, glanced at the barometer. “How’s the tide?” “We’ve about a half hour until

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She’s Still Here

Standing at the back of the hushed hallway I  could only hear every other word the docent was saying. My husband craned his head to listen. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Something about the woman who lived here and the widow’s walk. I guess the old ship captain died at sea or something.” Little Herbie

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Old What’s-His-Name

For decades it seemed that time had no purchase on the old man, save for the barely noticeable graying of hair and beard.  He worked the bar of the White Horse six days a week, knowing each patron by face and preference, yet  universally cold and rude to all. To the men of the town,

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Rite of Passage

Estéban loafed in the entryway, clearly nervous. “You’ll do great,” I said. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?” He gave a wry smile. We both knew the worst all too well. Olivér came out of the back carrying two of the loose jackets he favored for working. “You ready?” he said, handing one to

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A Reporter’s Notebook: The Bridge

I went to the Jungle on the east side of the river. As I suspected, Roughhouse Red was there, all too eager to share my bottle in exchange for giving me the low-down. He took a long pull, the whiskey trickling into his grizzled whiskers. “Ooh, that’s good,” he said. “What was it you want

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Mrs. Jones

It was like some giant had lifted off the roof and dumped in the entire contents of a thrift store. The huge room seemed cramped and choked by teetering piles of boxes, furniture and other clutter. Tall wardrobes bursting with clothes, cardboard cartons vomiting sheafs of paper onto the dirty floor, stacks of chairs missing

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