cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
When I was seven, I wanted a swing. The simple thought of soaring weightlessly gave me a feeling of rest in my little soul. Never for a moment did I doubt my daddy could make it happen, so I asked him, knowing he would join my joyful anticipation. Just as expected, he took on my…
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Our sidewalk was long and meandered in curves as it reached from our porch to the street. It was narrow, as sidewalks were back then when everything seemed to be smaller and much simpler. Our whole yard was hemmed in by berms that could hold back a foot of water. We lived in the old…
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Show-and-tell Fridays were days my brothers and I lived for as we progressed through grade school. We simply brought our dad. Well known among our peers as the man who brought unusual artifacts and interesting stories of Native American folklore to life, he also brought the pride of his ancestry. He easily looked the part…
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When I was a little girl, I had a best friend. He called me “Little Princess.” His hugs were protective. His smile was warm. He adored me and I adored him. We loved each other, and we both knew it. There was pure delight between us when we interacted. Then, one day, he moved away. Far away. I went from…
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I have two French dueling guns that I set out each Memorial Day and on July Fourth as a reminder of the high cost of freedom.
Read MoreThe lights— strung free of care and full of invitation along the wooden fence on our back deck— twinkled merrily thanks to the sporadic falling of raindrops.
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