Letter from Home | A collection of essays originally written for Flagstaff Live!

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Kevin and Joe; My one wild and precious life

Kevin and Joe; My one wild and precious life

Posted by on Oct 1, 2015

I didn’t recognize the incoming phone number when I took the call last week. It was a friend from college days. He and I have kept in touch over the years, but he lives in Florida, he’s not a big Facebook guy, and it’s been three years or so since we’ve seen one another or conversed.

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The cat’s meow; How we are who we are

The cat’s meow; How we are who we are

Posted by on Aug 27, 2015

  When my 21-year-old niece Carmen moved in with me six months ago, we visited the Humane Society one rainy Sunday to select a cat to bring into our petless lives. Before we got there, I decreed that the animal would be named Walter Cronkite, no matter the gender. Carmen was unfazed. She knew of my propensity for naming cats after broadcast...

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Sleep talking; Courting nature’s sweet nurse

Sleep talking; Courting nature’s sweet nurse

Posted by on Jul 23, 2015

A few weeks ago I was staying the night at a friend’s house. It was well past dinnertime. Clean dishes nestled into the drying rack, and a spirited conversation had ebbed. My friend’s 6-year-old daughter held my hand as she guided me up the stairs to the guest room. I kissed her good night and told her I was going to sleep. “But where do you go?” she...

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Little Debbie’s sweet fix; My adolescent drug of choice

Little Debbie’s sweet fix; My adolescent drug of choice

Posted by on Jun 18, 2015

I am 13 or 14. It’s a school night. Mom and I work in the kitchen, rattling plates into the dishwasher. My brothers and sister cluster in our wood-paneled family room watching Adam 12. Dad is away on business. I ask my mother about love: When does it come? How will I know? What was it like to fall in love? Mom answers matter-of-factly. Her tone suggests...

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Saying grace; You have to work for it, and then it works for you

Saying grace; You have to work for it, and then it works for you

Posted by on Jun 4, 2015

  I was 7 or 8 when Mom enrolled me and my younger sister in ballet class with Miss Eileen. Even though I am more of a jazz hands and tap dance kind of girl, I was enthralled with the shoes and the costumes, the pale and milky leotards, the discipline. Someone decrepit sat at the piano plinking music. Lines of coltish girls followed Miss Eileen’s...

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