Around noon was when I first heard of the massacre of congregants at a Pittsburgh synagogue.
It was Saturday, Oct. 27. I was sitting on the couch at the crowded birthday party of our 3-year-old grandson Sam.
In the run-up to Halloween, kids were cavorting about as princesses, chickens, strawberries and other toppings. Sam was an ice cream truck. The theme of his soiree for 3-year-olds was “spooky ice cream.”