A night when mysteries are illuminated, do you believe? On this night, when summer reaches its end, its bounties spent, the veil between the spirit world and ours grows thin. Summer breathes its last, its children perish, More
A bride’s attendants, imbued with calm order and responsibility, tread the sidewalk outside Chicago’s Fourth Presbyterian Church Saturday afternoon.
Beyond our vision, the fields of the Midwest are waking up. Farmers are getting ready for the growing season.
Time to put those long-laid plans into play. The equipment that has long lain idle will see some use . . .
on lands that have been cultivated for many, many years.
It’s a pleasure to see the dormant fields being tended again, to see the rectangles turn green with a careful geometry of seed imposed.
Every foot of the monotonous but fertile landscape has received careful study, the fields curving around favorite trees and troublesome gullies.
When the farmers’ work is done, there is respite to be found in the nearby forests and peaceful streams.
I imagine these sandbars are a good place to be.
At the tall building next to ours, someone has decorated the fire-escape landing. Just one person, finding the bareness and sameness of the iron stairway intolerable, has found it necessary to festoon her small corner with an exuberant melange of fake flowers, bird cages, and all-weather rugs. Spring, summer, fall, winter: it is the same and blooming in all seasons, a ready conversation piece—or message—for the hundreds of neighbors who see it daily. More
Every day is different, but every day begins the same way, at the refrigerator door, in a dark kitchen.
The hundreds of people who live in the building next to ours are asleep, but if they aren’t they can look into my kitchen, lit up like a stage set when I turn on the dim light over the stove and open the fridge. More