y wife and I are waiting for children. Every morning for three months, Joan’s alarm goes off at seven-even if she hasn’t climbed into bed until four or five-and she gropes the night table in the dark for her basal thermometer, slips it under her tongue, hits the snooze bar on her clock…
The other day I was wondering how to make onion soup, and my mind served up the bowl I had in Seattle just before we shipped out to Yokohama-my first onion soup, with a slice of toasted french bread and some melted Gruyere cheese. This was the end of 1946. I was six and a…
Greens Start simply. Lettuce green (light). Collard green (dark). Endive (deep thick white). Lettuce green (red at the curling edges). Lettuce green (with a spine of white). Mustard green (lace-spice). Cabbages, kales, and Brussels sprouts (yellow past their prime). And escarole (and oh . . .). Endive (the thick white). Greens are my delight. Swiss…
Plants & Houses (Northern Thailand) Several months after I come to live in the house, I begin to realize that nothing in the compound exists without effort or purpose. The lush, tangled gardens surrounding us serve as constant reminder that until only recently the neighborhood belonged to the encroaching forest. The house, a perfect cube…
In the practice of my trade, as writer and teacher, I lie by omission, I sometimes think, as much as I tell the truth. I note, for an eager, untalented first-year student, that her story is interesting, that it shows terrific energy, that there’s some marvelous insight here into waking up hungover on Saturday morning…
When my mother was a teenager, she kept scrapbooks on Marlon Brando and Ingrid Bergman. She pressed their photographs, magazine clips, and movie stills behind cellophane like dried flowers, and wrote them fan letters which they never answered. Recently, a boy I once baby-sat had “Guns ‘n’ Roses Lives” tattooed on his right shoulder blade….
Not long ago I accompanied a Trappist abbot as he unlocked a door to the cloister and led me down a long corridor into a stone-walled room, the chapter house of his monastery, where some twenty monks were waiting for me to give a reading. Poetry does lead a person into some strange places. This…
Cold. Wet. Sloppy. Traffic on the bridge is heavy even though I waited for morning rush hour to end. Perhaps there is no end to rush hour. Fax. E-mail. Supersonic jets. We’re all racing at greater and greater speeds, going around and around, stuck behind each other on the bridge. Except Mom, who in her…
A bitter Wichita, Kansas, winter day. The air is hard, and everything tempted to appear in an afternoon hour or two of tepid sunlight moves with recognition of that hardness, circles overhead as if turning an adamant mill wheel (crows), or raises a lavish tail the shape-and I would swear the brittleness-of the ice-fronds on…
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