Was I lucky to have a dad obsessed with transplanting north Georgia mountain tradition to Alabama soil? I didn’t think so, especially on Saturday afternoons. While the neighbors’ kids played kickball on the cul-de-sac, our family tended the crops on the utility easement. There was nothing sentimental about growing squash, zucchini, cucumbers, tomatoes, okra, corn, and beans, beans, beans—until now.
Category: Essay
Memorial Day: Cherishing Life in the Brutality of War
He scooped up a few gentle creatures and stowed them in shoeboxes below. The typhoon raged, battering most birds to death against the ship. When the seas calmed, Dad slipped below and gathered the shoeboxes. Then he ran topside, releasing the birds to soar. Life, after all, in the madness of death.
Accidental poet? Yup, doing my thing (love or leave it)
Poetry’s payoff seems less about praise or copies sold. I figure you’re blessed if you get to paint images with words, fiddle with figures of speech, juxtapose the unlikely, ponder the human condition, celebrate nature’s wonders, forgive the relationships that broke (and built) you, sing of those you love, and mourn your losses.
Taking the creative leap may jump you to new places
Part of being a writer is facing rejection and waking up the next day to try again. I spent a few years submitting to literary journals—with poems accepted and rejected. But I kept taking the leap until I built up a collection and Madville Publishing accepted it. If you’re a creative, embrace your vulnerability and jump in.
Looking back to move forward: how this artist’s life mattered every minute
Reading Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town in high school was a rite of passage: two families’ travels of a lifetime—the spectrum of human existence—in one day. It’s a rich read when I reflect on artist Edwina Goodman and this question posed by one of Wilder’s characters: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?” Yes, some do, and we are better for it.