The Art of Forgiveness

“It took a long time, but as soon as I let go of my anger and resentment, I was free. I dropped the chains I’d been carrying around like Ebenezer Scrooge and felt as if a single balloon could lift me off the ground and carry me to the sky.” I wrote those words some

Monday, Monday

I love Mondays. That’s kind of un-American, isn’t it?  Like saying I don’t much like fireworks–also true.  But back to Mondays.  We’re all supposed to prefer weekends to weekdays because weekends are the times dedicated to fun fun fun. You know–long hillside hikes, and parties, a trip to the art museum, and parties, a day

In Defense of Prejudice

And what’s this got to do with writing anyway? One of my writing colleagues recently published an article about prejudice against beauty. What? Who doesn’t like beauty? We all enjoy seeing beautiful things, places, faces. But what we don’t usually consider is how that pretty face makes us feel. Envious? Intimidated? Intrigued? Superior? Before that

Lost and Found in Santa Monica

Two dauntless dames from Vassar’s Class of ‘54 plan to meet for lunch in Santa Monica. This should be easy, except Alumna Number One lives several miles down the coast and rarely drives her grey Camry into the metropolis of which Santa Monica is a part. She looks up the address on Google and memorizes

The Day the Country Store Catalog Arrived…

The catalog from the Vermont Country Store arrived in the mail today. Immediately, I’m plunged into

Aroint Thee, Unholy Adverb! Hie Thee Hence! Fie! Fie!

A few years ago, there suddenly appeared, as if from Heaven, a new rule for writers, no doubt engraved somewhere in marble or ivory: THOU SHALT NOT USE ADVERBS. (For those who are unclear as to what an adverb is, the rule has a variant: GET RID OF ALL LY WORDS. [1])  The source of

Parking Lot Philosopher

I put my groceries in my car trunk, (all except the bag of low sodium popcorn) and settled myself into the front seat of my car. Time to drive home, but I didn’t feel like it. Home meant cleaning chores, laundry, and some vigorous digging in the garden. I’d rather stay here. It didn’t hurt

What’s in a Word?

What’s in a Word? When my cousin Ruth phoned, I said, “You were nice to call. I bet you remembered this is the day my mother died. “ “Alice,” she said, and I could just see her primming her lips, “nobody says died any more. You really should say

Suicide is Not Painless

by Mary Jo Hazard Last August 11th, Robin Williams committed suicide. He left three adult children to cope with his death—heartbroken, without a choice. On September 26, 1972, my father shot himself. It was my sister’s birthday. He sat on my old twin bed, in the bedroom my sister and I had shared as children,

Dan the Packer Man

Big Dan rests thoughtfully in silent scrutiny, a cigarette dangling from pursed lips, with a mind to the packing of the mules and the proper balance of trinkets and toys of little boy campers and fishermen who have pressed their gear upon him once again. His mind is not upon them for the moment, but