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Donal Mahoney: It’s Almost Sunday Morning

Donal Mahoney: It’s Almost Sunday Morning

      It’s Almost Sunday Morning          In the summer of 1956, any Saturday at midnight, especially when the moon was out and the stars were bright, you would be able to see Grandma Groth sitting on her front-porch swing waiting for her son, Clarence, a bachelor at 53, to make it home from the Blind Man’s Pub. He would have spent another evening quaffing steins of Heineken’s.          Many times that summer before I went away to college, I’d be strolling…

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