He sat on that tiny chair across from me
and poured tea and talked to me in the blackest British accent that was
awesome and made me giggle. He turned up the pinky finger of his
drinking hand and kept my little cup filled. (I took lemon and sugar.)
And even in the vestiges of his boyhood
in his overtures toward independence, he does what all our children,
grandchildren, nieces and nephews among him do. He is looking for his family. Even when he is letting go, he is holding on.
What work ethic I have — especially the stamina and energy to plow through until the end — I got from her. Our mother never stopped. My three blood siblings and the four stepchildren she raised can all attest to the fact that she never stopped parenting us.
Marjorie Celona’s Y and Leah Stewart’s The History of Us
are more than just novels by writers who happen to be female; they’re
sensitive, psychologically complex works that deal the nature of
identity in ways both singular and incisive.
I remember riding to Corsi Tree Farm way
out in Hamersville, Ohio, in those seats and stretching my short, stubby
legs. Today, the ride to Corsi makes me
claustrophobic. I can barely move; Dylan’s bony knees clank with mine.
Damn Dad’s long-legged McCartney gene. Toys have been swapped out for
smartphones, which keep us preoccupied on the long, coiling drive there.
Unearthing a new restaurant is always an adventure, so I was excited to find myself exploring Great Scott! this past Sunday following an excursion with the family to Cincinnati’s Museum Center during the final days its Dinosaurs Alive! exhibit.
The second sentence of Scotty Anderson’s online bio states that he’s still learning the guitar. That might be a hard sell to anyone who’s ever heard Anderson’s fingers fly effortlessly over the frets of his Telecaster, producing a sound that is both gracefully delicate and powerfully mastered.