My mother claimed, not a boast mind you, a claim, that I was independent before I was born. She may have also used the words ‘stubborn,’ ‘brat,’ or 'bold,' but mostly she referred to me as independent. Surely it was no surprise when at 21 I went west. It was always a surprise that I... Continue Reading →
It is the first day of summer and my house in Flagstaff is up for sale. After six months of packing and repairing and painting and cleaning and arranging and rearranging. After seventeen wonderful years. It is now squeezed into eight hundred characters and thirty-eight photos. All that life and love we put into that... Continue Reading →
My brother’s bedroom was off limits, but that never stopped me from many things in my youth. Having eight siblings, 72 first cousins, and hundreds of class mates at St Mary’s of Redford grade, middle and high school—let alone thousands of parishioners in our little corner of the Detroit metropolis—there was always someone not to... Continue Reading →
Walt Whitman reportedly said that he wished his early work could be dropped into oblivion, well, ditto that, Walt. I believe the only reason that most of us high school kids had our work published in this sweet little journal, Mosaic, was that we were brave enough to submit. Okay, that's the only reason my work... Continue Reading →
I grew up in Detroit in a big Catholic family in a big old house. I was the seventh child. We belonged to St.Mary's of Redford Parish. By the time I was in seventh grade, our school was integrated, or in the process thereof. The Parish and neighborhoods were changing. Blacks lived next to Whites.... Continue Reading →
It's rare here on the mountain. Fog. Not like Detroit. So many foggy days, foggy walks to school. Foggy drives. In 1979 my best friend Bridget and I drove in a fog so dense and large and lasted so long that we came to know it, and we named it; Fred.We were on a road... Continue Reading →
I have journaled, kept a diary, put the pen to my brain, so to speak, since I was five years old. And I have that diary, still. My favorite entry being one where I expressed how seriously furious I was at my brother Bernie. It's like peeing. Sorry, but it was the first metaphor that... Continue Reading →
A quick text to a few girlfriends, and in your head you should hear this shouted like a college girl would holler: "Road Trip!" But it was "Apple Pies!" And, of course, this call was met with enthusiastic response, the date was set, and I couldn't wait to crank up my apple peeler corer. But... Continue Reading →
pocket poet 