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What does one say to the bereaved? I know what not to say. I know because I was told this myself just yesterday, the day after my eldest brother, Terry Jenkins, died. I was traveling many hundreds of miles from my Michigan home and…
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Getting rid of old stuff is hard. Sometimes, you can’t sell it or even give it away. The green, papier mâché parrot that was my whimsical (but unappreciated) gift to my dad, the square end table (itself purchased at a yard sale decades ago…
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When my 92-year old mother died two months ago she left a house with four bedrooms, a large sewing room, a large laundry-storage room, an attic, a barn, a large storage shed, and a cat. The cat quickly joined the herd at my brother’s…

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Nothing says spring to me like forsythia blossoms. New beginnings. Having just finished my latest interim, I now lift the pen–or rather, press the keys–to write. Stay tuned.

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Orla’s pups have gone on to good homes, but the memory of their messy birth, playful wrestling, and ever-hungry, often-sleepy, baby-dogginess lingers in our home. Their July arrival and noisy sojourn among us were defining events for my family in 2012 and provided entertainment…
