In the 1960s, when my brother Doug and I were young, we often ran away from home. Angered by some perceived injustice, we’d tell our mother we weren’t going to take it anymore. We were running away. “We’re leaving!” we’d announce. She’d nod her head as if to say she understood and then pull bread from […]Read more "A Short Story of Leaving Home"
It was a long time ago, perhaps thirty-five years, perhaps thirty-six. I was in the Twin Cities, single, living in a house in the Loring Park area of Minneapolis. It was an old sandstone home whose bedrooms were rented individually. Renters shared a common kitchen, bathroom and living room, but were otherwise unknown to each […]Read more "A Long Time Ago"
If I could hold time in place, if I could freeze-frame a moment in time, I would sit across from my father at the dining room table and simply watch him. I would watch him as he read the newspaper or made his to-do list, cigarette poised between the fingers of his left hand, coffee […]Read more "To Hold Time"
As a child, when books were few and far between, when I had not yet learned about libraries, I craved the written word. In our home we had a small bookcase containing a set of Encyclopedia Britannica and a number of my mother’s art books. I do not know why reading was not emphasized in […]Read more "Of Libraries and Wagon Wheels"