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Measurables & Unmeasurables - 2015

I live in a three-sided bedroom. Think a saltine cracker box with the end torn out. The white wood banister, across the open wall, torn from the old home's front porch, keeps my guest from toppling down three stories, but it doesn't keep out all the rain, leaves, or frost. I might be the only girl in the South who wakes up after a thunderstorm and thinks, Shoot, I’ve got to sweep up the leaves. And you think raking your yard is bad.


About a Storm - 2016

When the weather cooperates with our plans, we hardly pay attention. But rogue weather, fierce weather, though it refuses to bend to the preferences of mere humans, loves us in a hard way. Any kind of storm demands honesty.

In a weather storm, we face our lack of control, our inability to direct the future, the puny limits of our strength, the uncertainty of our future.


Friendships Like a Train - 2013

Some people are like trains in my life, when they enter, they bring action and noise, which is exciting or dreadful, for a time. But then they move on. And all that’s left is quietness. Life just goes back to normal.

From our lofty perch atop a 170-foot feed mill, we quietly watched the headlight from the engine dancing off the trees.


Food From the Trash - 2013

His large slack pants were fastened around his thin waist like a heavy-duty drawstring trash bag, the kind used to bundle up red and yellow leaves this time of the year. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about him. He wore a button-down shirt, and tufts of stiff, curly gray hair peeked out from under his ball cap.