WELCOME January 29, 2001 ISSUE

To Our Readers

Mary Trammell

The apartment I lived in a few years ago over looked the home stretch of the Boston Marathon. Each April, it was high drama watching thousands of runners race, jog, lumber—or in some cases, stagger—toward the finish line all afternoon, and well into the evening, of the grueling 26-mile race.

Mostly, I remember the whooping, hollering cheers every time a runner made it across the finish line. Then family, friends, and supporters would huddle around the triumphant runner—with hugs, towels, and special shiny blankets.

Send a comment to the editors
NEXT IN THIS ISSUE
Letters
YOUR LETTERS
January 29, 2001
Contents

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.

Submit