THE POWER OF GRIEF
Who we thought, or what we thought we would always have to hold onto — that which we thought would always be our lifeline — may be gone. As he aged, James Moore, owner of Dinty Moore’s restaurant in New York City, badly missed two of his departed cronies. One quiet afternoon the absence grew intolerable. The old man fixed up two packages wrapped in butcher paper and tied them with string, climbed into his chauffeur-driven Packard, and went to Woodlawn Cemetery. At the mausoleum of his friend Sam Harris, the theatrical producer, the old man placed a beautiful hunk of corned beef and reminded him aloud how inconsiderate he had been to die young. By the time James Moore had marched over to the mausoleum of George M. Cohan, he was steaming mad. The other parcel was a fish, which he beat against the mausoleum door. “Cohan!” he shouted, “In case you don’t know, today’s Friday, and I just…
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