![]() ![]() When not cooking big meals or ironing our blue Catholic-school uniform shirts, she worried about our moral fabric and prayed a priestly vocation would be in the future for at least one of us. ![]() Mom was a full-time mother and housewife, and proud of it. Like just about every other dad in the neighborhood, my father worked with cars, as an engineer for General Motors. I was an altar server and later the office boy at the church rectory, where I earned a dollar an hour answering phones and doorbells. The church was just three doors down - no coincidence - and my earliest memories are steeped in the fragrances of devotion: incense and sacramental wine, beeswax and musty pews. ![]() My neighborhood was called Harbor Hills, and it is the setting for much of my new memoir, The Longest Trip Home. Not long after, our family moved from the city to the sleepy village of Orchard Lake, Michigan. Instead, I arrived on the first day of spring, the youngest of four. My very Catholic parents were hoping for a St. I was born in the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan, on March 20, 1957. ![]()
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