Nonfiction, Memoir, and (mostly) Fabulist Fiction
I don’t know where the old tin came from. Maybe it held cookies once upon a time, a gift to my parents. I suspect it was found in the old house when they first moved in. (A lot of things were left behind by… Continue Reading “Breathing the Past”
I can’t remember ever seeing my grandmother smile. This studio portrait, taken God knows when, is the closest she comes to it. As a child, I didn’t understand her lack of smiles and (I confess) took it personally. (I was an emotional, empathetic, introvert;… Continue Reading “Where is Grandma’s smile?”
So begins the gothic novel Rebecca, written in 1938 by Dame Daphne du Maurier. My own version might begin, “Last night I dreamt of the house in Clifton Park.” The old farmhouse on Plant Road wasn’t much to look at when my parents purchased… Continue Reading ““Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.””
A certain hill looms large in my memories, although it wasn’t particularly large itself. The yard behind the house in Clifton Park, NY where I grew up (we had yards back then, rather than manicured lawns) was wide enough to contain a swing-set and a clothesline… Continue Reading “A Hill Runs Through It”
