Category Creative Nonfiction

Winter’s Heart: A Sex in the Garden Essay

In the heart of winter, I contemplate my winter’s heart. Frigid days bring sinking into slush puddles against the icy wind, starting the day with cold feet, jumping into a dark car only to join the cattle call of the highway. I have to refuse this heart. My heart is elsewhere. I am consumed by the memory of a rose. Take a rose petal in your hand. Stroke it. Lift

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The Flute

One late August morning, I found myself on a rugged dirt road on the east side of San Pedro Mesa, high above the Sanchez Reservoir. I was with a man I had met not two hours before. I had set up this appointment with him to discuss the concerns involving the feral and abandoned horses that roamed this part of the San Luis Valley. We met in a public place,

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The Persistence of Doors

I was four years old, and we lived on the top floor of a fisherman’s house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I could see the ocean from my window, and our landlord often brought us fresh seafood. My father, a USAF radar operator, worked lots of seven day weeks and double shifts because of the Cold War and Korea. My mother was stuck at home, alone with no friends or family

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Mozart’s Kept Canaries: Music and Technology

“The late humorist James Thurber wrote a fable set in a medieval court, and he has the Royal Astronomer report that all the stars are going out! It turns out that he is simply going blind. I am probably making the same mistake.” – Dan Wakefield, ed., Kurt Vonnegut Letters, Delacorte, 2012 I needed to be sure to get up at five this morning to drive a friend to a

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Absorbing Criticism, or Looking for a Happy Place Between Confidence and Self-Doubt

Many years ago, a navy chief warrant officer said to me, “Walker, all it takes to erase a thousand ‘attaboys’ is one ‘Aw, shit.’” What he was telling me in his gruff, salty way was that no matter how much good someone does, a single poor performance can wipe it all away, at least in the eyes of the entity with the highest stake in the job, that person also

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The Dark Side of the Pooh

“Jerome Bernard Parent, what are you doing?” my mother asked. Uh oh. Full name. I’m in trouble. “I’m just reading,” I said, showing her the book. “That’s rude for a guest to be doing. Now go outside with the other kids and play.” “All right,” I said. “In a minute.” I peeked down the stairs. All of the grownups, including my mother, were drinking and talking loudly about the upcoming

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