Category: Non-fiction

A few weeks ago, I sat in the Fresh Side in Amherst, ruminating over the tea choices. Local author and professor of creative writing at Bard College, Jedediah Berry, was meeting me there to talk about writing and his very successful novel The Manual of … Continue Reading

Once she lived in Arizona and she got an award, so her mother sent her an azalea. It was pink                   and pretty, so out of place in the apartment of nubby beige and ochre chair covers,                   cigarette smoke, monsoon grit. All her … Continue Reading

The conference room was decorated in that sterile version of New England charm often found in banks and dentists’ offices, a family of ducks marching proudly around their wallpaper border in tiny straw hats. Old pewter kitchen utensils hung on the wall … Continue Reading

For many winters, I spent considerable mental energy trying to figure out—as tens of millions are probably doing at this very moment—how to keep squirrels from controlling the birdfeeder. Day after day, I would watch from the sidelines as dominant squi … Continue Reading

Susan Stinson is the Writer in Residence at Forbes Library in Northampton, Massachusetts, and the author of Belly Songs, Fat Girl Dances with Rocks, Venus of Chalk, and Martha Moody. Her upcoming book, Spider in a Tree (Small Beer Press, Oct 2013), is … Continue Reading

I always suspected Maggie was a witch. Even when she said she’d been in the novitiate – Franciscans, perhaps? – my belief persisted. There was awareness in her touch. The objects of daily life seemed more significant: a ceramic bowl revealed its earthe … Continue Reading

There was a time in Greenwich when people kept a car for more than a year and could look at their house and say, “Maybe this is enough.” When my grandparents, Jean and Dean Barker, moved to Greenwich in 1968, it was actually a pretty ordinary town. The … Continue Reading

1. Rainbow Towels Here is Albert on the beach – black socks and yellow Crocs, two different rainbow towels wrapped around like blankets, one in orange and green and yellow stripes, the other in coalescing teardrops – blues, reds, and yellows. His hands … Continue Reading

A newsletter came in the mail in the fall of 1993. On the front page of these stapled mimeographed pages, there was a photo of a boy in a wheelchair with a trophy from Challenger Baseball, Little League’s program for kids with disabilities. Ten-year-ol … Continue Reading

Ada B. Wells is not her real name, but she talks about Ida B. Wells who refused to give up her seat on the train long before Rosa Parks could even ride the bus without her mother. We had just met, and her furry top hat sat over her hair. She was lament … Continue Reading

The refuse of my disease isn’t orange pill bottles or syringes. You won’t find used needles or vials on the floor or in my pockets. You won’t find anything, but if you could, you’d see only fat bottles—emptied. The big bottles wait for me at the store. … Continue Reading

I hate open casket funerals. Grandpa looks more alive now than he did before he died. His hands are fastened together on his chest over a smart black suit jacket. They’ve tastefully applied rouge to his cheeks, like the final flush of life. And if you … Continue Reading