Recently I posted about Letters to Me: Conversations with a Younger Self, a collection of essays by several authors of varied backgrounds written to a younger version of oneself. Today I’m posting my essay from the collection.
This is not the type of writing I normally do here. But this was a story I thought needed to be told, and asked my friends Kathy and Mary to sit down with me a month or so ago and tell it. A modified version of this article appears in this week’s Grant County Review. :: […]
When my friends strayed off the nature center trail to explore the thicket, I made up an excuse to stay back. All that brush, it would surely set off my allergies. I took a few steps, edged up to a branch and rubbed my eyes to prove it. I take pills for that, you know. […]
I’m chicken-sitting this week while the guys are in Milwaukee. Yes, I have chickens* penned in my front yard. Right next to the apple tree. Between strays and intentional pets, now vandalistic landscaping, we’re running a regular petting zoo and small arboretum. This morning, one flew the coop. It’s a 4×4 makeshift pen, but it […]
Practical jokes dot the countryside of my life’s landscape. In my college house, it was not uncommon to find rubber bats hanging in the shower or fake mice in the cereal box in the morning. A batch of cookies was always suspect, the probability of finding one filled with hair quite high. We woke a friend […]
I don’t know how to age a tree, without cutting it open to count the rings. This tree in front of the tan house, taller than its two stories, is it older than me? Did it once watch my yellow hair, my skinny legs grow, and cover me while I drank Kool Aid in July […]
I was driving north on Lyndale Avenue. I crossed Interstate 494 running through the southern Twin Cities metro area and all of sudden I wasn’t sure I knew where I was anymore. That’s not unusual for me, I know. But this was my old neighborhood, and it didn’t look the same as I remembered.
“I bet Hitler is getting the quivers in his backbone if he has any left. I’d like to get at his mustache with a pair of my tweezers. Would I ever pick souvenirs.” It goes without saying, I suppose, that somewhere along the way when sorting through the belongings of an aging parent, somebody’s going […]