You can’t buy Christmas spirit, but you can make it.
Robert Barsanti gives a eulogy for a local man killed in a hit-and-run accident—a man who, in another life, could have been him.
In our age of terrorism, we have become a nation of lifeguards. When tragedy hits, Americans have learned to open their doors instead of closing them.
Teacher Robert Barsanti looks at education, its metrics and the point they’re both missing.
When Bob Barsanti was his eldest son’s age, his adolescent ego was stoked by shoveling snow: a modern John Henry against the snowplow. That was then…
When the plumbing backs up, men often expect that we should know how to make the repair.
What does the life deliberately and well lived look like?
In our fantasies, a gun ends all arguments in our favor.
“I piled up his clothes, vacuumed his floor, and got rid of the flotsam and jetsam of an unclicked mind.” Robert Barsanti takes his father to the hospital.
Emerson wrote that a hero is no braver than any other man, but he is braver five minutes longer. Robert Barsanti suspects it is the same with successful marriages.
To his old girlfriends, Robert Barsanti’s father would always be Romeo. But for Robert, Benito was Lear.
Robert Barsanti wishes he had eaten more cake, kissed more women, and seen Sarah Vaughn when he had the chance.
Robert Barsanti reflects on his father, the skier. “Every other role was a costume he wore in order to get into the car and drive north to snow and slopes.”
Hats off, slide the chair, hold the door. Robert Barsanti reflects on traditional gender roles, and how, in the end, a man does
Fifteen years after her death, Robert Barsanti’s mother still helps him through difficult times “with the whisper of iron and the strength of bone.”