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
The wildflowers grow small up on the Rockies. I looked up their biological names when I got home, and nearly all of them were "Dwarf" species. One alpine sunflower was even named, "Old Man of the Mountain," and isn't that perfect? The bluebells and yellow roses are just little, old Dwarves on a Lonely Mountain. … Continue reading Three Thoughts from the Mountain
The first few things I remember about our stretch of Chatham seashore last summer are the waters chopping and clapping against the rocks, the place where the gray sky touched the horizon, and the points of light that blinked there after dark--- lighthouses across the bay. I also remember how the seashore smelled like dead … Continue reading Death on the Shoreline
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
This post is from last summer's blog series, The Cape Cod Letters, in which my grandpa Larry and I wrote to each other during my family’s trip East in June 2021. June 10 Papa, My lips and face are chapped, my hair stringy, and my legs sore from bracing myself against the railing of the … Continue reading Winds on the Atlantic
I was thinking last week about that day in 2017 when we all looked up— when folks from Oregon clear down to South Carolina stopped their work to watch the total solar eclipse. It was August and steamy here. Our grandparents came over and sat by fans on the back patio, Dad grilled lunch, and … Continue reading Chasing the Storm
It was April, and a thousand daffodils were blooming down the hillsides, along the pond banks, and up near the old Bascom House. Helen met Papa Larry and I in the parking lot of Shaw Nature Reserve. It had been more than a year since we’d seen her, and I’d forgotten how her laugh sounded … Continue reading Burnt Grass ~ A Good Friday Reflection
When I looked in your eyes I didn't see fear or questions about the war--- But of course! I saw the tree above us reflected and growing toward the sky.
March winds have torn the plastic on our little greenhouse, so I clomped out in my rubber boots last Tuesday to reinforce what I could. I needed the staple gun from the shed, so I fit the key in the lock and pushed the door open. My eyes widened to the darkness and ran up … Continue reading The Snake in the Shed
I remember reading where C.S. Lewis and his friends (J.R.R. Tolkien among them) would sometimes walk a days’ journey across the English countryside together, stop at a pub for beer and rest, then take up their walking sticks again the next morning. “It was an idyllic way to spend three or four days. Footpaths were … Continue reading Writers On Walking
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