Dear Lord, I am not the gardener I was in March, when the earth was thawing, and I stood on a blank slate, and the only green things were the points of the bulbs. I had springtime hopes, just as I always do. When I thought about August, I saw myself filling Wal-Mart bags with … Continue reading A Gardener’s Lament
Probably the most impassioned thing I ever wrote was an essay called Two-And-A-Half Acres on Edgewood Road. I was eighteen, and for the first time, I’d tried writing about the place I knew best and the people I’d shared it with. I wrote from a hotel room at night, rain blearing the windows and brake … Continue reading The Climbing Tree
Hey, Mom. Thanks for being here, and for reading these things I write every Sunday. But really, thanks for all the times when you aren't here in front of this screen because you're too busy working in the real spaces around you, planning our meals and wiping down the highchairs after the kids have gone (and also … Continue reading Hey, Mom
Take a left at the end of our driveway, and you’re headed downhill, over the railroad tresses, then up to where Edgewood Road meets the Old Highway. You’ll follow Krinning’s fence, which is so old the trees have grown up through its wires — but before you start up the hill, there’s a place where … Continue reading On Walking
Mom said it’s been like Miss Twiggley’s tree here lately— which might be my very favorite children’s book, about a funny lady who lives in a tree “with a dog named Puss and a color TV.” When a rainstorm washes the town away, the groceryman and mayor's wife and police chief and town dogs all … Continue reading Miss Twiggley’s Tree
Folks say I take after my mom’s side of the family— that I have the Latham nose and smile. But Dad and I are alike in a lot of ways too, though they tend to be unseen things, like tendencies. For one, Dad and I both crave a good, stretching view of the horizon. Since … Continue reading The Hill
The first thing folks notice when they step through our front door are the big, oak cabinets that span the far wall of our dining room. And when they sit to share a meal with us, and we pull out dishes—maybe even a pie— from those cupboards, they notice we call them “Frank’s Cabinets.” I … Continue reading The Man Who Built the Lord’s House
By Hannah Mead “I am coming,” He whispers, with cypress smoke and cinnamon. I’m waiting, straw clutched between cold fingers pushed through impatient pockets. But tonight, the promise of dawn lingers heavy below the horizon. Perhaps Venus is pinned like a diamond in the darkness behind the shed that tilts, weary, at the bottom of … Continue reading Advent
Tom and his wife both came to last month’s neighborhood board meeting, which is always a rehearsal of restrictions and property lines. Tom, of course, wore big overalls over his hoodie. When the meeting was over, I asked his wife about her new greenhouse, and she showed me pictures of plants climbing the windows, which … Continue reading Fence Lines
I listen to a news briefing as I walk Edgewood, warm winds tossing the trees. I hear there are bodies being flung from planes. I don’t remember seeing the little American flag on Rivara’s mailbox before. Old Highway 50 is hot and quiet, and there are black-eyed Susans and zinnias growing around that tin-roofed house … Continue reading Homefront
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