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I was still. The wind rumbled just like Thurl Ravenscroft did from my room. A gust of wind blew through the treetops, and all of them let out this baritone groan that made my hands shake. Maybe this was what Grandma was talking about. Maybe . . . Continue Reading

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I am seven. I lay in “my bedroom,” the spare bedroom at her house in Tazewell, Tennessee. Dusk settles down in the holler, and the only light shining through my window is from the moon. Earlier, I had . . . Continue Reading

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Grandmother’s button box was always kept on her sewing machine desk. It was more of a small canister, really, made of tin, with a terra cotta-colored plastic lid. The box was decorated with images of people from the Victorian era shopping for fabrics and notions. I do not remember aContinue Reading

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I love you Grandma. I love you Grandpa. I love your hands, Leathered brown from Years of plowing. I love your palms, Calloused from years of Weeding and canning. I love the syrup Before milkin’ time When the stars are still out, And I love you waiting now, With hoeContinue Reading