In 1905, a young Hilda Edwards entered onto the scene in Christmas Cove, Maine, likely weary from her trip from England. She was only fifteen years old and had come over from her home in Bristol to live with her uncle, a professor at Smith College.Read More ›
As of today, The Fiddler’s Gun, Part I: Foundations is now available (that’s chapters 1-12). Over the next few weeks, I’ve got a couple of bonus episodes lined up, one featuring some deleted material, and one featuring a conversation with Shigé Clark in which we dive into a behind-the-scenes (behind-the-page?) discussion.Read More ›
Over the last few years, I’ve found myself in several situations where someone’s asked me a question about The Fiddler’s Gun or Fiddler’s Green and I legitimately couldn’t remember the story well enough to answer. If that sounds ridiculous to you, you’re not wrong—it sounds even more ridiculous to me.Read More ›
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?Read More ›
The best lesson I ever learned about God’s grace came as an eight year-old at the piano with my dad.Read More ›
It’s 7 am in Brooklyn. The Hudson River on my left moves gently, recovering from the night before. Murals of men I don’t know look down on me from the redbrick walls where they sit. People begin emerging from the shadows of doorways, darting towards the welcoming oasis of a coffee shop or eatery whose shutters have just lifted.Read More ›
My brother, Orrin Sackett, was big enough to fight bears with a switch. Me, I was the skinny one, tall as Orrin, but no meat to my bones except around the shoulders and arms.The Daybreakers, 1984
The other day I read those words for the first time in about twenty five years and the strangest thing happened.Read More ›
I met my then-future wife in college. Our first date was on December 17, 1996, and just a few days afterward, we each went home for Christmas, her to Hot Springs, Arkansas and me to Orlando. We were a time zone away from each other, and cell phones were yet to be a thing. I knew I’d be talking to her sparingly, and I also knew I was deeply smitten. It’s a hard place to be—young, in new love, and a thousand miles apart.Read More ›
I didn’t want my own son.
Perhaps that’s a bit too honest, this essay a bit too public. But the sentiment was true, and truth, I’ve been told, can set us free.Read More ›
And now it begins. After forty days of fasting, after the harrowing darkness of Good Friday, after the long silence of Holy Saturday, after the dawn of Easter like a slow explosion of light over the greening hills of the Northern Hemisphere, we move into the joy of Eastertide. As much as I love that it all leads to Resurrection Sunday, I think my favorite part of the whole drama is today: Easter Monday.
As soon as the snow begins to melt and the temperature breaks above 32 degrees during the day, it’s time to begin the maple syrup harvest. Which means in Minnesota, it’s tree tapping time.Read More ›
One Saturday, my friend Rebecca Reynolds bundled herself in three coats and hiked up Roan Mountain with a jar in her hand. Standing on the mountaintop, she opened the jar, read a poem into it, then sealed it shut and carried it back down the mountain.Read More ›