One day I was flying my kite.
My kite was lifting me up,
and I was flying!
– Peter S., First Grade
It a bummer when you want to write some verse, you know, and you’re always writing in the shadow of your best poem written when you were six . . .
Billy, my stepfather-in-law, died last month after a nine-month battle with cancer. During our subsequent four-day visit to Nashville and Columbia, Tennessee, Betty asked me to preach at the funeral, something I haven’t done before. Here’s what I said. Who can sum up a man’s life? The finest eulogies diminish the dead. I can’t say what […]
We’d climb on old gondolas and tugs and dugout canoes illuminated only by a translucent, fiberglass ceiling. We could see the pine needles and dirt accumulating in rows along the corrugated roof from inside the building. We played underneath a white, fallow field blessed by inattention and sunlight.
A sign in the aisles said not to climb on the boats, sure, but no one was ever in the room with us: no docent, guard, member, or guest. Only birds.
Bethany at work in Kenyon’s metal shop yesterday. She and two other sculpture majors share a studio the size of a small townhouse. It has a twenty-five-foot ceiling and its own bay door for installation art. Bethany, however, likes to make miniature pieces. The new studio art building opened while she was in Japan.