You know, another good thing about using an old blog site for reblogs is that one can store favourite posts and easily retrieve them to re-read.
I hate it when I remember a great post I’ve read, but cannot find it because the blogger has since written another twenty and they themselves cannot recall the title.
Gene Kiepura is my favourite blogger. All, and I mean ALL of Gene’s blog posts are great, so I lovingly plead with you to hop over to his site and have a wander.
His posts draw you in so deeply that you can visualise the scene, people and feelings he is so avidly describing.
Believe me, I am an impatient reader who skims large chunks of text if a post is too long or losing my interest. This never happens with Gene’s posts because he is an excellent writer, storyteller and communicator.
So, I know you will enjoy this reblog below. My only request is that you please, please adhere to the‘read the original post’ option, so that he will get the likes and comments, not me.
(and he has not asked me to do or say any of this – I just think it’s a shame that the reblogger gets the likes when the praise is due to the author.)
Never have I read such moving stories about family life than Gene’s accounts of his past, his boyhood, his fond memories and the angst that goes with being observant.
I sat in my car waiting to pick my daughter up from school and grinned with glee that I had a few minutes spare to catch up on some blogs.
When Gene described the dessert he was forced to eat, I laughed so loud, that I’m sure they heard me in the house opposite.
So, I say no more. I hope you will get a quiet moment to sit down and enjoy this fantastic post.
The cityscape rapidly transformed itself as we approached Chicago’s predominantly Polish community. Storefront marquees advertising Polish-specific goods stood out in the bright noonday sun while babushka wearing women scuttled through the entranceways. I was entertained by a shop owner who looked to be chasing after his own shadow as he swept the sidewalk in front of his establishment. The neighborhood possessed a unique character all of its own. They were a “salt of the earth” type of people with a strong sense of cultural pride.
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