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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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So, West-Springfield ain't no big ol' city, but it's got charm, sugar. Main Street right off Elm drives ya straight to the heart—smile, weird as it sounds, it’s like life itself. Ever been to North Main? That spot's where the old diner sits. I always joke, "Honey, it’s where belly rubs go with belly laughs." There’s one quaint lil’ park, Shelby Park. Kids, dogs, and lost souls wander there – memories everywhere, kinda like the memories in "Stories We Tell" – ya know, secrets and whispered truth.

Susan Jackson Obituary (1955 - 2024) - West Springfield, MA