Cruelty at Recess
We joined hands and sang “Ring Around the Fatso” to the tune of “Ring Around the Rosie.” We were fourth graders, and that’s what we did that autumn day at recess. The student in the center, a boy I’ll call Joseph, smiled at first, and as we circled …
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The Name Dropper
While having a famous father-in-law is not literally the least interesting thing about me, most days it hovers suspiciously close to that designation. Maybe that’s the reason I try to keep it on the DL whenever possible. No one would ever know were it not for my wife’s last …
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On the Variations
1. The first time I played Bach on the piano, age eight or nine, I was startled to find how much it soothed me. Soon, I couldn’t bear the stress of my house without the immediate feedback of the piano keys, the press of fingers, the requirement to attend …
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What I Took
From the ashes of a long marriage, I took the kitchen table we found at a farm auction. He sanded the top to expose heart pine, and I painted the frame and legs. I now use it as a desk. * The settlement agreement was simple, fifty-fifty. …
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Hush
At the Common Ground Country Fair, I finally get to babysit a real baby. “Push her around in the stroller for a while until she falls asleep,” says the mother, a friend of my parents who runs the spinning booth. I feel like I have been given the doll of …
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Bunk Beds
When I think of that winter, I think of the emptiness of the mattress above me and the sounds I stopped hearing from underneath it. My sister was a loud sleeper. She tossed and turned a lot, often banging against the wall against which our beds were pressed. My …
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The Frog in the Hall
There is a frog in the hall, sitting on the banister post. He arrived in my child’s hand and now sits patiently, and because it feels rude not to acknowledge him, I make eye contact. I give a little nod to the frog in the hall as I shuffle past with …
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Housing
You’ve taught me to watch for things. The bees making the penstemon go swaybacked. The look of a primrose when it’s about to uncurl in the night. The white flits at the end of evening grosbeaks’ wings before they dive into the larches. Kinnikinnick and lazuli buntings, Pacific wrens and …
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Butterfly, Fly
They walk along spiraling paths under the domed ceiling of the garden pavilion. She is four. She isn’t supposed to, but it’s hard not to. And so, she does. Touch them. A broad leaf. A wandering branch. A soft flower. So much spilling out and over. Gentle. One small finger …
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