A True Story from Home April is young, and I’m in my garden as often as I can be. Today, I have company. My nephew, Bennett, is kneeling in the zucchini patch beside a Red Ryder wheelbarrow. He asked if he could help, so he’s weeding the clover that crept up in early March, tossing … Continue reading A Garden in Babylon
A True Story from Home Last February was gray and long, as the lean months before spring tend to be when winter feels old. But in my mailbox on Edgewood Road, there was something new: letters from Jared about what he hoped to plant in his garden that spring. He wrote of marigolds and tomatoes. … Continue reading When You Come Marchin’ Home
A good writer is one who recognizes that there is always more to the story than they're capable of telling. The world is vast, and they will never come to the end of it. John wrote his gospel with this humbly in mind. He had undertaken the formidable task of writing about his Rabbi and … Continue reading All the Books in Eldredge Public Library
A True Story from Home To me, Mrs. Olave Thurston was the lady in my grandpa’s stories---as if she was another Ma Ingalls or Miss Rumphius. When we ate chicken for dinner, Papa would tell how Mrs. Thurston raised, butchered, and boiled her own. When spring came and I cut fresh flowers for the table, … Continue reading Gravestone Flowers
For Mr. Bob They said you could have flown that day and gone down with the plane that burned in the field behind the barn, smoking black above the Pennsylvania pines. Instead, you went down slow, stalling, but steady, and still checking your flight lists, making sure the hospice nurses were safe and buckled, the … Continue reading Flight 93
A True Story from Home There it was, lying in a black case on the quilt like a closed casket. “Well, open it,” she said quietly. I unhitched the clasps and cracked it open to see a dark violin lying in green velvet. It was coated in dust and rosin, its strings were frayed, and … Continue reading The Butcher’s Violin
I do not know if my great-great Grandma Howard was a round woman, or if she was as twiglike as my great-grandma Wanda, or if she had my grandma Karen’s smile, or my dad’s love of German chocolate cake. I only know what Dad remembers, and that is her cinnamon rolls. They were doughy to … Continue reading It’s Recipes We Remember
Mavon’s dad knew he was dying. He didn’t want to leave them here on the farm—Mavon, her brother, and mother, but he was ready to be with Jesus, and he reminded them from his deathbed: “We’ll just be separated for a short time, and soon, we’ll be together again.” There was something else— “He told … Continue reading A Light in the Valley
I was planting potatoes one day in early spring when what looked like two B-25 Mitchell bombers rumbled over the trees. I pulled my hands out of the dirt to watch history fly by and remembered there was an air show in St. Louis that weekend. I also remembered reading about the war gardens – … Continue reading Victory Garden
The carnival tent on Fifth Street was hot as an air balloon. The old men wore shiny shoes, and there was one woman in a dress with piano keys all over it. Ragtime wafted from pianos all over town—from the mainstage on Fifth; from somewhere up in the banisters of the Bothwell Hotel lobby; from … Continue reading It Began in Sedalia
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