I’m not known for being graceful. In fact, I have a reputation: I’m a klutz. If it’s on the floor, I will trip on it. If it has a corner, I will bump my hip or knee. If it has a sharp edge, I will cut myself. I wonder, sometimes: if you wrapped me in … Continue reading Bumps and scrapes
"In Portland," they told us when we moved here, "you don't garden. You beat things back with a stick." I have to say it's true. Year after year, we prune the lilacs. We trim the camellias, we cut back the roses. We wait, every spring, for the hyacinths to stop blooming so that we can … Continue reading May flowers
Today I bought a book I don't plan to read. I know, all you minimalists and declutterers out there are gasping in horror, but look--I'm a Taurus. I like my stuff. Even stuff that doesn't spark joy. The book in question is Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. I must have read it twenty times … Continue reading Stuff and Things
Growing up, my mother was the one who decorated my room. She picked out the furniture; she made my curtains (to match my sheets). She wouldn’t let me paint the walls. It was a small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with just enough room for: One iron-framed brass bed (twin) One wide bureau … Continue reading What we keep
When I was eight I locked the wind in a box. It didn’t weigh much, made no noise if I shook the box, and looked rather a lot like a handful of dandelion fluff. I’d toss a pinch into the air and a breeze would whisper secrets in my ear. Other kids had soccer trophies … Continue reading Catching wind
