Image Credits: Iron & Lace for Camp Climb Summer camp for the young me was this: wet socks drying on hickory branches. Cold Dr. Pepper from the canteen. Legs dangling from the top balcony of Amity Hall, lost in a continual conversation with stars and the dirt beneath.
I’m no stranger to the immense personality crisis Mother Nature endures throughout an Indiana spring. This year in particular, our entryway has danced between parasols and parkas more times than I can count. Sundays spent chattering on a back porch, kids swinging wildly on a hammock chair, popsicles at the ready. Monday morning? Snow, and
Our Christmas tree towers in the dining room corner. The starless top is drying, browning, but the lights are still strung delicately. (The cranberry garland off to the birds long ago.) I haven’t been able to take it down, and not for lack of want. The space will be nice, I think. The pine needle
It began last summer, the itch. — I’m no stranger to the itch, have had many in a lifetime. Every creative project I’ve ever endeavored to explore has been a direct result of a prickle’s first beginning. The early notion, the quieting of all else. Once the itch turns feverish, begins to keep me awake
Finally: puzzle season. Candied pecans on the stove, Bing Crosby on the speakers. This is the time of year in which we all share excitement over something. For some, it’s sterile snow falling in sheets. Others, a warm, glistening tree and a tower of packages. Still others, your grandmother’s eggnog recipe. Me? Jigsaw puzzles.
Vacation came, vacation went. I’ve spent the past few days in the post-getaway rhythm of folding whites, restocking pantries, shaking sand from the car mats. This morning I unpacked my suitcase and returned an unread pile of six books to my nightstand – a welcome reminder that even beloved hobbies pale in comparison to watching
I use the word becoming because it’s important. Because, as in anything at all, there is no being a better writer. No arriving as a better writer, certainly no tricks to staying a better writer. There is only becoming, both on the page and off.
My 10-year-old self loved many a summer days – air slick with freedom, elbows slick from cherry popsicles. An entire universe whirling by from the banana seat of my lustrous purple Huffy. Cicada symphonies. Gingham feasts. Chlorinated hair. And then, I grew. From inches higher, the neighborhood creek seemed far less adventurous than the latest