Amanda's View: Sharing Harry and Fantastic Beasts

By Amanda Knox
 
I’m actually glad Chris was just too old to be into Harry Potter back in the day. Although he was a fantasy and sci-fi nerd who read voraciously and regularly played Dungeons and Dragons, in 1997—when Sorcerer’s Stone was published—he was also fifteen. There were limits.
 

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Amanda's View: Oma's Thanksgiving

By Amanda Knox
 
Oma’s first Thanksgiving in the United States wasn’t much of a Thanksgiving. She shipped off before the end of Opa’s deployment in Germany, alone except for their first child, my uncle Mickey. She spent the unfamiliar American holiday in Seattle with Opa’s mom, and didn’t think much of it, because she didn’t think much of her mother-in-law, who was in the habit of demanding extra rent from Oma at the end of each month. Also, they served raw oysters, and Oma disliked having to pick the sand out of her teeth.
 
Oma’s next Thanksgiving was much better. Ironically, it was back in Germany. My mom Edda was born by this time, on the military base. Another military couple joined Opa and Oma’s little family for dinner, brought the turkey. Oma contributed what has become her signature dish: red cabbage spiced with clove and apple. Opa told her the story about the Mayflower and the Native Americans, and Oma, a history buff, drank it up. This time, the holiday felt like family, and reminded her of Erntedankfest, the harvest festival, when the first wines of the season were uncorked.
 

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Amanda's View: Addiction, face-to-face, part two: Tricks and triggers

By Amanda Knox
 
I accelerated into the mostly empty parking lot and veered a wide arch into a spot. I pulled up the parking break at the same time that I unclipped my seat belt. Chris already had the passenger side door open. We were on a last-minute mission to buy temporary black hair dye for my Jessica Jones costume, before heading to a haunted house with my family, and we were running a little late. We bounded toward the entrance to Walgreens when, suddenly, I jerked to a halt. Chris swept by me, but paused after a few steps, looking back. “What’s up?” he asked.
 
I stared through the passenger side window into the other lone vehicle in the parking lot. Inside, a man—tall, lean, white, 30s, with short, dark hair, wearing jeans and a plain, long-sleeve T-shirt—was slumped in the reclined driver’s seat, apparently passed out. His right arm lay stretched out in his lap, and his left hand curled limply around a needle sticking into the cubital fossa of his outstretched right arm. I stared. “Look!” I said to Chris. “He’s…Should we do something?”
 

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