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Thinking about my position in the family—a grandmother of seven—carries me back to sweet memories of my own grandmother, Gramma Florence. Oh my, she still occupies a deep space within me, even though she’s been gone for nearly forty-five years. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if I fill my grandchildren’s hearts with as powerful a… Continue reading On Being a Gramma

Perhaps my love of writing began in second grade when we learned cursive. Holding a pencil fat as a broomstick, I listened as Sister Alma Francis introduced us to a soft green workbook eight inches long by four inches tall. “Children, this is your Palmer Method book.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “Open to… Continue reading Notes on Writing Real

My mother ruled over our home with unusually high energy, unfiltered opinions and unbridled passions for the arts, music, and books. Passions, you know? Like where you are swept away with the flow of something much grander than you thought you were capable of being. We were swept away daily with the sounds of Gershwin,… Continue reading Beautiful Books

I’m not a psychiatrist and I’ve only read enough self-help books to clutter one small bedside stand, but I know about Dreams. Not the kind that fill my days when I plan new undertakings, but the impressive ones that swirl though my nights, which usually evaporate upon waking, like fog in morning sun. You have… Continue reading When Dreams Give Us Pause

I have been fascinated with Lake Michigan since I was a little girl growing up in Evanston, Illinois where I’d go to swim—diving into its foot-numbing waters or puddling along its sandy shores. Cooled in the summer by its lake effect breezes and warmed in the winter by its large-mass stabilizing presence, I understood that… Continue reading Our Precious Resource