My son, Matt ~ When I picked him up from Moon Valley School, I could see he was upset. “Mom, do you know what happens to us when we die!” “Do tell.” “Charlie sang a song about John Henry, and when he died, they buried... Continue
Rude Awakenings
Righteous Indignation ~ I pick up my granddaughter from school on her third day of kindergarten. “So, how was it?” “Well,” she says, arms akimbo, “they have a lot of rules here.” “Like what? “You can’t throw rocks, you can't throw the bark, you can’t tear... Continue
Born on a Minnesota farm, you milked cows and picked corn. You hated farming; that’s why you left Minnesota, that, and your mother always telling you what to do. She cried when you left home; you were only 16. You had nine siblings, all with... Continue
For years my mother followed me around, continually showing up in my stomach, my bones, and my dreams. She used to be a dull ache inside me, but not so much anymore. In those five years that I lived with her I wasn’t raised by... Continue
I’m in the back seat of Ed’s green Pathfinder with my friend Kayla, who is three, and we’re on the way to an Easter gathering at Wally and PJ’s place. Ed and Elaina (her grandparents, who are raising her) are in front. Kayla shows me... Continue
Why write? It’s complicated. I had no intention of becoming a writer, to externalize my life and expose it on paper. But I found that every story matters, and if I can find meaning for myself, perhaps it will help others find a shaft of... Continue
I imagine it’s no coincidence that my writing began when I was 53, the same age my mother was when she called it a day. Nor that it took me five years to write our chronicles, the same amount of time I lived with her... Continue
I imagine it’s no coincidence that my writing began when I was 53, the same age my mother was when she called it a day. Nor that it took me five years to write our chronicles, the same amount of time I lived with her... Continue
Char Girl -- I had my four-year-old granddaughter on Saturday. We’re making cookies and she begs to take over mixing the butter and flour. “I do it, I do it! Let me, let me!” After cleaning up, as there was now batter everywhere, we put a... Continue
Dead People and Sparkle Fairies ~ “Oma, there’s dead people under those rocks, you know.” I glance over my shoulder to see what Satchel is talking about. My four-year-old grandson is commenting from his car seat about the small cemetery to our left on East... Continue