I think it was over Thanksgiving dinner. My mother's best friend, a dear woman who has never been other than good to me and my mom, decided to poke some gentle fun, Dayton Ohio-style, at me.
"Ted," my mom's friend began, "what's with these terrible descriptions of our city? The way you write, you'd think this was some bleak post-industrial wasteland." She motioned out the window to her manicured lawn, punctuated by a set of perfect flowers.
I held my ground. "What about down by Route 4? Rusted-out factories, meth houses. It's like a war zone." "But that's" — she searched for the word — "downtown. That's not here." "It's five or six miles, at most," I pointed out. "You can walk there!"