Are you watching that show again?” my daughter Dixie asks, her nose wrinkled in disdain. “Yes,” I answer sheepishly. “It’s horrible. I know. Now close the door!” I blame my husband. For years I existed in naïve bliss, unaware of the reality television behemoth known as The Real Housewives franchise. Then, one spring day he convinced me to sit with […]
Recent Posts By Allison Glock
In the South, your people are determined by much more than bloodline. About 40 minutes up the road from my house is the Museum of Appalachia, a sprawling compound of historic cabins, cantilever barns, exhibit halls, and heirloom gardens populated by free-range peacocks, guinea hens, miniature fainting goats, and a particularly docile Highland cow named Clover, who moos when you […]
During a holiday away from home, Allison Glock celebrates Santa in Sin City.
Andrew Blair was my grandmother’s father, a handsome, fussy Scot with an ego disproportionate to his environment. To be a snob in West Virginia is to exhibit a gross miscalculation of your milieu. That said, his garden was spectacular. Like many of my ancestors, Andrew was a potter. He labored long hours in a crowded, dusty factory a short stroll […]
Motherhood is hard. It is hard in the ways that matter and in the ways that don’t. It can make you feel as powerful as the sea and as useless as a fleck of mud, sometimes in the same moment.