I managed to sneak in a beach walk just ahead of sunset, in between one of this week’s tremendous king tides. Massive driftwood logs were scattered across the shore as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. But now, everything was still. Not a single wave reached the shore. The final full moon of the year—the Cold Moon—brightened as the sun lowered in the sky. I knew I’d need to turn back soon, but I kept walking. I had names to speak aloud on that beach. There’s Wyatt—en

When I was eleven, our school band needed new equipment—and that meant selling candy bars door-to-door. In a neighborhood like mine, I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, so it wasn’t hard. But I saved Mr. Hermes house for last. Mr. Hermes was a neighbor several homes down from my own. He had a meticulous lawn and manicured shrubs, and he wore what seemed to be permanent scowl. I knocked. The door opened slowly. Mr. Hermes looked down at me with the same authoritarian expres

Live as long as I have and you’ll gather quite a few Thanksgivings to reflect upon. This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, 1989—the first year we spent in what we believed would be our forever home. Tom, dressed in his wedding tuxedo of all things, is carrying in the turkey from the old outdoor oven my grandmother gave us. And yes, he’s also on the phone. That phone line was our tether to a livelihood—constant, necessary, even on Thanksgiving. Selling apples meant the holi

My granddaughter has recently started peppering me for stories from when I was a young girl. It’s been fun to look back and share some of my foibles, lessons, and laughter with her. One afternoon, we were sitting at her dining table while she munched on a few of my homemade biscuits. Watching her enjoy them reminded me of another story—a biscuit story from long ago. I was about ten, and I belonged to a 4-H club that focused on cooking and sewing. For the county fair, I decide