Instead of red velvet trimmed with fur, ours came with a sporty stripe. But what matters most is what’s inside, and ours stretched to hold more joy.
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I remember a quiet so complete a lone cricket was a cacophony, a single drop of water boomed like a stick hammering a bass drum. I remember space, vast and long, remember cotton that stretched to the end of everything, interrupted only by ribbons of blacktop that led to exotic places like Leesburg, Piedmont, and Rome. I remember a dark […]
They say we Southerners live in the past. That, they say, is our problem; the past is dead, Faulkner or no Faulkner. I guess I could try to explain, to tell them that for us memory is not an inventory, not a catalog of events, but a time machine. It lifts us off the dull treadmill of grown-up responsibilities to […]
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.