Dear first-grade journal,
Dear first-grade journal,
I can’t remember an autumn so breathtaking.
We all adults and children, writers and readers have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that we are in a world in which society is huge and the individual is less than nothing: an atom in a wall, a grain of rice in a rice field. But the truth is, individuals change their world over and over, individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.
When I was a teenager, 40-year-olds seemed ancient.
When the weather gets cooler and the days get shorter, I fetch three things, usually in this order:
We live in a society of excess.
When my parents start sifting through random file cabinets at their home in South Carolina, I end up with random packages in the mail.
In the grand scheme of things – a world riddled by war, famine, fires and floods – a missing iPod is inconsequential.
If there was any doubt that my taste in art leans toward the rudimentary or borderline ridiculous, it was quashed during last weekend’s stroll through Bradley Fair.
We moved into our house nearly five years ago.
Whats the best way to spend a holiday weekend?
Somewhere amid all the news stories and cultural punditry about Miley Cyrus’ raunchy gyrations at the MTV Video Music Awards, there was a brief item about researchers in Sweden who confirmed the existence of a previously unknown chemical element.
Every spring, I tell myself its not going to happen.
“We catched fish, and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn’t ever feel like talking loud, and it warn’t often that we laughed, only a kind of low chuckle. We had mighty good weather, as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all, that night, nor the next, nor the next.”
Call me crazy, old-fashioned or frugal, but I still love the public library.
I’m a latecomer to the whole cold-brewed, cold-pressed, coffee-sludge-turned-black-gold, iced coffee bandwagon.
There’s a coffee mug I’ve seen in a thousand little gift shops. It features a strawberry blond 1950s housewife with bright eyes, perfect brows, a lipsticked smile and the caption: “Stop me before I volunteer again.”
The young woman approached the microphone and told author Khaled Hosseini how much she had enjoyed his books, appreciated them, learned from them.
The day I turned 8, I got a five-year diary with a locking cover.
The phone call came at the perfect moment.