Night is settling over the farm, and my milking shift is almost up. I hunch my shoulders inside my dust-filmed jacket, dipping the tip of my nose below the collar to warm it momentarily before turning to the paddock and … Continue reading
Though it’s the state capital, there are almost no direct flights to Lincoln, Nebraska. I fly through Detroit and Omaha. As I walk out into the carpeted hallway in the Omaha airport, there she is, wearing the black fitted jacket … Continue reading
In fourth grade we took a tour of East Rock Park, though everyone in school had already been, since everyone in school lived in East Rock Neighborhood, or so I thought at the time. Our guide was Ranger Dan, who … Continue reading
Harriet Quimby, drama critic and aviator (1875-1912) I lift off, climb above swaths of suburbs, taut tennis courts, lazy fairways, lines of sailboats where sea shifts blue-green to blue. I level out above small farms like the one where I … Continue reading
“YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE SAD,” the twelve-foot billboard along the left side of Route 93 shouted at me in tall neon letters as our car went roaring past. Of course, it didn’t say exactly that. It was probably … Continue reading
My relationship with West Virginia has always been strained. I’ve lived most of my life in her hills, attending kindergarten and grades four through twelve in two adjacent counties in the Northern Panhandle. But even from a young age, I … Continue reading
Mémère and Pépère’s potato farm sits at the end of Bradbury road, three minutes outside of Fort Kent. My mother and her six siblings grew up on this farm with my grandparents, harvesting potatoes until the tips of their fingers were sore and stained with fertilizer.
It’s the day after Christmas and I’m moving to Bethel, Maine, in what feels like the middle of the night, but then again the sun sets early this far north.