At the end of January, the polar vortex came though forcing me to visit the storage room. I don't much care for the storage room. It's dark, crowded, and occupied. At the end of November, Lawerence Fischman made a sound... Read more →
Writer's prompts are magical. There is a section in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in which the protagonist is remembering a moment with a college student struggling to write well. I won't get into the philosophical discussion of... Read more →
From the ACT UP funeral march carrying the body of Mark L. Fisher from Judson Memorial Church up Sixth Avenue to the Republican National Committee headquarters on the eve of the presidential election, 1992. Stephen Barker Where were you in... Read more →
We migrated south from New England, down to the Badlands of Fairfield County. Technically still New England by virtue of the nearly invisible line separating it from Westchester County, New England it was not. I'd never stayed in any one... Read more →
In the beginning she told herself they were small things; no matter at all. She placed them, one by one, in the small carved box at the back of a closet and said, no matter, it is no matter at... Read more →
I toured Ireland for two weeks in May of 1999. No, that's not right. I ran behind my latest husband as he galloped at high speed from one carefully selected destination to another. For a guy who spent his childhood... Read more →
He doesn't look like anybody but himself. He might have his father's ears and his grandmother's eyes, but that pixie face belongs entirely to his youngest sister. He's got his mother's nose and also her heart. You can break that... Read more →
The name is a tossup: Craft or Artisan? And do I add Westchester to the name or leave it blameless and whole? Please weigh in afterward. This used to be a food blog. I'll stop there. I love banana bread.... Read more →
My Aunt Annie. Not so sure about this selfie business. Heather, I don't know how to do this. Yes you do. You're doing it right now. She was seventeen when I was born, and married at twenty; three and a... Read more →
A word, please, Mr. Fischman! At the tail end of September, the summer occupants are elsewhere. Gone are the bunnies that hopped across my yard like they owned the place. Gone are the brown squirrels in the Shagbark tree, and... Read more →