I take for my text the oft quoted words of E.B. White: “If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I awake in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” I won’t keep you long today; I will get right to my three points. Point number one: Bewilderment is part of the human condition. This, I believe, is one of the enduring truths … Continue reading Thanksgiving Message→
There is a dog on my runs who doesn’t like me. He lives on an Amish farm one and a quarter miles from my house. I take Bake Oven Hill Road to Middlecreek Road and can get in a moderately challenging run out and back as long as I’m staying under six miles. It is gorgeous and pleasant and has a mild hill and runs along the creek for a while. But that dog though. He’s the worst. The road splits his farm in two, like so often is the case around here in rural … Continue reading When Things Bark at You→
On a drizzling November day our poetry group gathers around the workshop leader’s kitchen table. Before we begin the critique of our poems that we wrote during the week, our workshop leader, Sharron Singleton gives us a writing prompt to free the writing self. We sit with our loose-leaf paper, yellow pads, our pens poised. I always feel a little like I used to in school before a pop quiz. “I want you to write “How Big Is No in Your Life,” Sharron tells us. We laugh and groan, oh, no. … Continue reading How Big Is No In Your Life?→
I had a fantasy when I began volunteering for the International Rescue Committee (IRC) in Charlottesville. I would help newly arrived refugees document their identities, tell their stories and illustrate them with family photographs brought from their homelands. We would talk, become friends and I would save their stories. Naively, I didn’t understand that many arriving refugees spoke little or no English. Those who did land with language skills were eager to go to work as soon as possible. Getting acquainted and discussing their pasts was not their top priority. I signed up to assist the teacher … Continue reading A Common Language→
I grew up in a house bustling with artists. We had extra bedrooms that my mother kept filled and a grand piano that was always in use. To this day she hands out her number to people she picks up at bus stops and airplanes and the rapid transit. But mostly, she’s lived with musicians who come from abroad to study at the Cleveland Institute of Music; young people who have been given scholarships for their studies, but no money on which to live. My mother fills the refrigerator and her artists fill the house … Continue reading The Cottage: A Womb With A View→
HELP, I’m roiled in moil, chaos on every side of me. My life flashes before my eyes, although the only thing I’m drowning in is the sorting of minute particulars. It’s a cautionary tale. Some time ago (has it been weeks?) I bought a copy of a benign looking little book called the life-changing magic of tidying up. It had occurred to me, on numerous occasions that this is something I ought to be doing, tidying up, I mean, and so this looked like the answer to if not my prayers, probably somebody’s. Marie Kondo, … Continue reading Cleaning Up→
“Just meet me at my internist’s office,” my mother texted. “Oh, ok. You have an appointment?” “Yes, I’ve had some internal bleeding.” “Oh, ok. I can be there by 4:30.” I was going to visit my mom for a night on my way back to Virginia from Maine. Change of plans I guess. It was a couple of days before my birthday and I hadn’t spent a chunk of time alone with her in a while. But instead of driving to her apartment, I headed for the hospital. Typical of my mom to announce off … Continue reading Birthday At Rite Aid→
Two years ago I couldn’t have even told you that Carson McCullers was female. My familiarity with Southern Gothic was that limited. But this summer I found myself haunting Columbus, Georgia, her birthplace, seeking some sort of connection with the woman who wrote The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Like Mick Kelly or Jake Blount, peripatetic characters from that book who wandered the streets of what is only a thinly-veiled Columbus, I walked the city, past the old cotton mills along the Chattahoochee, down by the old bus station from which Antonapoulos, “the obese and dreamy … Continue reading A World Intense and Strange→
Beyond the obvious grief of losing a parent or relative to old age, there is a particular tragedy that accompanies a person’s passing rarely whispered inside the comfortable blandness of funeral homes or over the open caskets of the recumbent dead: the tragedy of discovering lives left unfinished and dreams unfulfilled while cleaning out the lingering personal effects of the departed. In my lifetime so far, I have sorted and removed the orphaned belongings from the homes of three people that have escaped their corporal lives: a woman in Boca Raton, Fl, whom I only … Continue reading Post Mortem Clean-Up→
I live in a town where the writer who cranks it out rakes it in. I can’t get past page three in any of John Grisham’s books before I give up. Those books are page-turners though, you betcha, the whole who-dun-it thing, the thriller. Characters so thin you see right through them. People in my town, Charlottesville, Virginia, are so besotted with his celebrity they make a habit of dropping by the bookstore where he signs absolutely anything anyone wants in the frontispiece of his books. I have waited years for some reviewer to break … Continue reading At Least I’m Potatoes→
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