Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Frank Fitzpatrick

On Jan. 13, 1968, in what was a more telling indictment of my social life than my taste in sports, I was sitting in the basement TV room of a college dormitory in Wisconsin watching a Saturday night hockey game between the Minnesota North Stars and Oakland Seals.
Surrounded by Fishtown's redbrick sea, Palmer Cemetery is an eerie urban island. Neighbors of the 250-year-old burial grounds insist spirits of the Revolutionary and Civil War veterans interred there sometimes prowl its weathered headstones and foreboding maples.
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