Magical Memoir Moments
Two Mennonite college students met as roommates in 1966 and have kept in touch. This year we celebrate our 45th college class reunion and then take up another adventure — to Cuba!
An old painting, uncovered from The Box in the Basement, reminds me of my deepest desire: to become an artist who keeps learning and teaching.
This week’s vacation at Long Beach Island evokes strong memories of my childhood love of swimming. The rarity of a day at a beach or even a swimming pool made it very precious from the anticipation beforehand, to the packing, driving, arriving, splashing, and returning.
Sometimes a Magical Memoir Moment occurs in less than a second. The way my parents told the story, their first meeting was like that. If either of them had made different choices that fateful day, forty-six people would have very different stories. Or no story at all.
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul. My father’s eyes look different to me in the few pictures I have from his last years. The one below gave me shivers when it appeared last week on Facebook. The photo comes from the 1979 Lititz, Pennsylvania, high school yearbook, The Warrian. Daddy’s last…
Together or alone? Good writing benefits from both community and solitude. Sometimes a deep experience of one leads to a craving for the other.
The Longhouse Project and a little-known, long-ago family story have inspired hope that Native-American and European-American healing may some day be possible.
Websites can’t remain static. They need to evolve as technology changes and the purpose of the site evolves. I just changed mine and would love some feedback.
I wish my trove of memorabilia included a picture of our old mailbox, because I remember how fast my bare feet could take me there in the summertime. Especially on Fridays when My Weekly Reader arrived. I also loved to get cards, postcards, and letters. I would pore over the pictures, notice the handwriting, and…
Our neighbors the Martins lived less than a quarter mile away. Sometimes my brother and I rode our bikes down their long lane, hoping to play with the Martin children: Carol, Elaine, Danny and Davy. After I left home for college, I lost touch with the Martins. Carol’s younger sister Elaine came back into my…