What does it mean when a symbol survives longer than the ideal it represents?
June 21, 2011 It took a bit of effort to acquire this lovely ring. My future husband and I had been living together for a couple of years, and when we finally decided to get married we knew that traipsing down to the mall and picking out ordinary wedding bands was not for us. We wanted something special, something unique, but didn’t have much of an idea beyond that.
Read moreA troubled father and son find each other on a train in the home country
We met on Franklin Street in the Heights section of Jersey City. It was the night before I moved to Nashville, and my father had asked me to meet him at the club where he frequently played cards with his friends from the old country. We each had an espresso, and then we took a walk. Not far from the club, he handed me a thousand dollars and said he wished he could give me more. He told me to be careful. He hugged me. As I walked back to my car, I tried to control my breathing and hold back the tears. Something was ending, and something was beginning, but there was much I was leaving unfinished.
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It took a cancer diagnosis to cure poet Wilmer Mills of discouragement and malaise
June 8, 2011 For the past ten years or so it seems that all I think about and write about is Time, but something about learning that I have a form of liver cancer that is ultimately incurable has given me an amazing sense of clarity about the subject. I find myself standing on the back porch taking deep breaths, intoxicated by air and light and hope. Despite my bleak prognosis, I now see everything in front of me as a space of infinite possibility, within certain limitations, with a full and nourishing sense of Time.
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The Village Idiot was a maddening presence and a comical Facebook character—until he was suddenly gone
May 16, 2011 Save for the pouring rain and a yapping miniature pinscher next door, it is eerily silent as I write this. Under normal circumstances, all manner of small engines would be revving—yes, even in a downpour—as I write, but not today. My next-door-neighbor, the one I called the Village Idiot, the one I turned into a Facebook phenomenon with posts about the constant noise of chainsaws and log splitters emanating from next door, is gone.
Read moreWhen a beloved mother is aging and confused, The Food Channel can be a lifesaver
May 6, 2011 My mother never cared for mushrooms. “Like chewing snails,” she said. Even in healthier days, “Shew, God” was her response whenever someone mentioned mushrooms. Obviously, she agreed with Pliny who said that truffles are the excrement of the earth. But what can you expect? She grew up in Snowflake, Virginia, where mushrooms were disdained because they often sprouted from cow patties.
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For Clay Risen, Shelby Foote’s three-volume history of the Civil War is this nation’s Iliad
April 13, 2011 Like his putative Greek forerunner, Shelby Foote was not a trained historian but a master storyteller. He wrote four well-received novels before embarking on The Civil War, including Shiloh, a fictional account of the 1862 battle. Long after completing his trilogy of history books, he continued to think of himself first and foremost as a fiction writer: “I think of myself as a novelist who wrote a three-volume history of the Civil War. I don’t think it’s a novel, but I think it’s certainly by a novelist,” he said.
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