My brother and I turn, and there is my husband Tom, crumpled in the gutter, a pool of blood spreading under his head. Call 911! In five minutes, there are – count them – three police cars, two fire engines, and a passing Good Samaritan doctor. . . . → Read More: Pearidge, Trauma ; 99 to 1; and The Self-Made Myth
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My mother is eighty-six. Other than needing a walker, she’s in good shape. Two months ago my father fell, confining him to bed on the top floor of their three-story townhouse. With my encouragement, my parents put a deposit on an apartment in Grand Oaks, a posh “assisted living” complex for well-to-do . . . → Read More: Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Gilbert My father is 96. A month ago, he shuffled around the house, up and down the stairs, quite well by himself. Then, as he puts it, “I fell on my arse!” Oops! Compression fracture of the spine. Treatment: pain killers and bed rest. But, if he is ever to walk again, he must . . . → Read More: The Drug War Comes Home I have long supported school choice–confined to public schools. My son attended primary and middle school in District Three on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. District schools are subdivided into small units, each with its own program and principal, competing to attract students from all of Manhattan. At IS 44 on . . . → Read More: School Choice: A Lesson from New Zealand |
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