January 2004. My ninety-two-year-old mother waves a misshapen finger toward a cluttered end table. She says with a shrug, “That’s about my mother.”
My eyebrows rise involuntarily as I reach for two carelessly folded sheets of paper next to a ripped envelope. One is a dark photocopy of a story from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle dated June 24, 1906; behind it is another with the same date from "Saloon News" of the Brooklyn Standard Union.