The day is lovely, and I’m glad I have a slew of errands to do to get me out and about. Last night it poured for a while and then it thundered adding a bit of drama to the evening.

I saw a picture of Superman the other day, my Superman, my faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound Superman. I was reminded of the living room at 37 Washington Ave. It was there, every afternoon, I watched Superman while my mother made dinner. The house was small; it was one side of a duplex. The kitchen table was against the window. The rest of the kitchen was longer than it was wide. Not far off the back door was a fence, and a big white house used to sit way back on the other side of that fence. The driveway to the house wasn’t paved but was rather two ruts worn in the grass by use. Pear trees were there, and we used to eat those pears, and all I remember is how hard they always were. The fence had a gate near the house and on the other side of the gate was the parking lot no one ever used except us kids to roller skate, ride bikes and play wild games like crack the whip. I used to climb the gate from Green Street where the house was. It was a short cut to my own house.

I remember lying on the floor in front of the small TV while I watched the flickering black and white screen as Superman saved the day. I knew that Clark and Superman were the same, and I wondered why Lois, Jimmy and Mr. White never figured it out. The glasses weren’t a great disguise.

Lois was a favorite of mine. She wasn’t afraid to investigate all sorts of nefarious schemes and people. Maybe it was because she knew Superman would always come or maybe it was because she was gutsy and getting the scoop was more important than anything else. I wanted to be Lois, curious and brave, but I never wanted to wear one of those hats, and the first thing I’d have done was ditch the suit.