“The Magic Years”
It’s a hot Kansas day. The poplar trees planted as a windbreak beside the house gather the light from above and funnel it down onto the patio. Bees flit through the roses climbing glossy white trellises. In the distance, my two brothers lie on cots inside the tent pitched near the grape arbor. The tent sides are rolled up and I can hear them giggling as they plan a grape spitting contest with the neighborhood kids. This is a venture which involves me if the can tear me away.
“A Gardeners Diary”
New Jersey Monthly
It is June and the farm is beginning to show off all its new green growth. I have driven my green Volkswagen bus 2,000 miles cross-country from Denver to New Jersey to live with my old college boyfriend Peter, because he has acquired this 120-year-old farmhouse on fifteen acres. I have some odd notion that I would like to live a rural kind of life. More specifically, I want a garden.
“My Little Man”
The New York Times
I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he does every day as he walks along Route 9; he always looks occupied; sometimes his wagon is full — scrap pieces of wood, vegetables, corn. Often he walks alone.
“Her Methodist Frill” (Creative nonfiction)
Kansas City Voices
Emma places the hat carefully onto her head. She’d had her fine white hair clipped short and set in tiny curls yesterday at Jean’s House of Beauty in La Crosse. She watches herself in the filmy mirror as she pins the hat securely.