FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: Charlie and Maude began their marriage on a homestead perched near the banks of the Cumberland River. The first child came within the year of their marriage. Eight more followed. Whooping cough claimed one of the babies, and the river’s frequent flooding eventually claimed the house.
These red crown jewels of cuisine, the tiny ripe ones sweet enough to make you weep on first bite if you weren’t too busy reaching for another — they come from right up the road this time of year, if you are lucky enough to live in the right places. In our neck of the woods, the strawberry epicenter is Portland, Tennessee, and the farms stretching out across the rolling hills of the region.
I loved opening the bookstore alone on Sunday. I loved how it smelled — all those books with their genie-in-a-bottle dreams of love and fear, goddesses and coal miners — Sherlock Holmes on the foggy moor — barefoot Sappho — Harriet Tubman, vampires, Lassie. Often I would arrive well before noon, to have some time alone with the books.
This space differs from the typical waiting room because not one of my fellow patients, struggling to make themselves comfortable in these chairs, is here for a regular checkup. We are all here because another doctor has seen something disturbing, something that has to be investigated.
Moping around the house, I acted as if I was the first parent to be cut off from reading with their kid. But parenthood delivers sudden reversals to all who dare to raise a child, particularly those who become overly attached to routines, traditions, or phases. You never know when they will end, sending you swerving in a new direction.
FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: Divorce is an ugly business — at least it was for me. I felt as though everything in my life was broken: my home, my family, even my sanity. I didn’t know it then, but far from being over, my life was about to get interesting.
