Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Jim Redmond works as a juvenile correctional officer, mostly with teenage gang members, in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He is currently in search of a publisher for a collection of short stories.
The summer of 1975 found my mother still waiting for her life to pick up again. In the years since she’d divorced my father, she had been without a man, without money, without friends. When she wasn’t bogged down with her night job cleaning the Ben Franklin five-and-dime on Main Street, she waited at the kitchen table or in front of the TV for the phone to ring, so something good could happen. She waited through packs of cigarettes and cups of coffee and baskets of folded laundry and episodes of Happy Days.