Julie Carr was one of my favorite childhood playmates. She also had way cooler toys than I did. In the corner of her bedroom, she had a small table with two black wire chairs and we’d prop her stuffed animals and dolls around the table and have tea parties. One of those dolls was Mrs. Beasley.

If you grew up watching the television show Family Affair, you’re familiar with this doll that the young Buffy carried around with her everywhere. If you pulled the string on her back, Mrs. Beasley would say a number of phrases like “Long ago, I was a girl like you.”

When this girl grew closer in age to Mrs. Beasley

One evening, when I couldn’t sleep, I started thinking about Brian Keith, the actor from Family Affair who played the bachelor uncle who took in his nephew and two nieces upon the death of their parents. One of my other childhood friends (Peggy?) once told me that her mom had dated Brian Keith. Whatever happened to him and to the rest of the cast members of that television show?

To stop Family Affair from ricocheting in my head, I did some midnight sleuthing and eventually wrote “Around the Time I Coveted Julie Carr’s Mrs. Beasley Doll.” I sent it off to Shawn Aveningo Sanders, co-founder of The Poetry Box, and she published it in their literary journal, The Poeming Pigeon.

Funny how things work out

I figured I should let Julie know that a poem with her name in it was circling throughout Portland, Oregon (where the Poetry Box is based), and beyond. I found Julie’s work email and told her I’d purchased a copy of the journal and was hoping to drop it off to her but wasn’t sure where she lived.

Julie was quite a good sport about the whole thing and invited me to her home. Turns out, even though we had moved to other states, we both had returned to our hometown and ended up living only a few miles from each other.

So almost fifty years later, thanks to Mrs. Beasley and a poem, we reconnected. Turns out that Mrs. Beasley still, as Julie says, “keeps an eye on her” from the upper shelf in Julie’s closet.

When we met up, it was the winter of 2020 and we were in the throes of the pandemic. Mrs. Beasley followed CDC guidelines and masked up and socially distanced. Before I left that evening, she was already reading Poeming Pigeon cover to cover. If you look closely, you’ll see a photo of Julie (back in the day) nestled under to Mrs. Beasley’s protective arm.

I’m grateful to Shawn for publishing this poem in their pop culture issue. Because of Shawn’s efforts more than 2,000 miles away, I got a chance to reconnect with a childhood friend who was a mere 5 miles away. Here’s the poem:

Around the time I coveted Julie Carr’s Mrs. Beasley doll

Family Affair—Brian Keith, Sebastian Cabot, the whole lot 
of them—was going strong.

So who could guess that this is how the show ends?

In 1976, Buffy and her curly ponytails will be dead by 
18 of a drug overdose. Mr. French will entertain a series 
of strokes and die the next year. Jody will do missionary 
work with Mormons, then snort coke for a decade,  
become a drug counselor, and spend the next 17 years 
recovering while Sissy writes a book, Surviving Sissy. 

Sometime during all this, Uncle Bill will get lung cancer
and kill himself with a gun, the same way his real daughter 
Daisy did, not like how Millicent who married his father 
chose—by jumping off the “H” of the HOLLYWOOD sign
after tucking a suicide note in her purse that read: 
I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything.

She was 24, perhaps still banged up from her father’s
hit and run death on Park Avenue. It left her and two 
siblings orphaned and raised by a bachelor uncle just like 
her future husband’s child one day plays, except her uncle 
doesn’t have an English butler named Mr. French to read 
Winnie the Pooh and tuck the children in at night, or save 
the Mrs. Beasley’s of the world when they are left behind 
on buses.  

Not only did this poem reconnect me with my childhood friend, but Julie’s and my mom have rekindled their friendship and, once again, they meet up regularly for coffee.

What was your favorite television show as a kid? Has a poem, a story, or a book ever connected or re-connected you to someone in a surprising way?

Leave a comment

Notes

• While Lost in Space and Gilligan’s Island were my two favorite television shows, my favorite Family Affair episode is when Mr. French accidently knocked Mrs. Beasley off the terrace ledge and then the frantic search for Mrs. Beasley ensued.

• My Gilligan’s Island poem (which happens to be my most popular post) can be found here:

• Looks like there are still a few issues of The Poeming Pigeon: Pop Culture for sale here.

• Cover image by Sue Rickhuss from Pixabay.

• You can buy this Mrs. Beasley doll off of Ebay from zacatak98 for $250. It’s a 2000 reproduction and Cheryl Ladd (the actress who replaced Farrah Fawcett in Charlie’s Angels) is the Mrs. Beasley voice you’ll hear when pulling the cord.

  

  Thanks for reading Writing Without a Net! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

My father was fond of saying, I’m here because of silkworms. That’s because he and his three siblings were born and raised near the Flat River, in a town once known as the Silk Capital of the World. Each year, one million pounds of raw silk from silkworms who feasted on mulberry leaves in Japan, China, and Italy, poured into the town of Belding, Michigan.

Here’s my dad and me on one of our last visits to Belding. I’d shared this image in an earlier post, “We Lived in the Ocean,” and mentioned that it reminded me of a story I wanted to share.

So here’s the story

Behind us is the Belrockton. It was built in 1906 as a rooming house for women who worked in the Belding silk mills. (It now leads another life as the Belding Museum.) The building’s name, Belrockton was named for the three Belding Brother Company locations: Belding, MI, Rockville, MA and Northhampton, CT.

My father was right. If not for silkworms and the Belding brothers, he might never have been born, and Belding might have kept one of its earlier name, Hog Wallow.

Here’s one of the four silk factories they built in Belding:

While working on my first memoir, Kissing the World Goodbye, I ended up incorporating some of what I learned while researching Belding’s history.

A short excerpt

from Kissing the World Goodbye

Before she was a wife and mother, my grandmother, Julia Schmitt, was a Belding Silk Mill Girl, one of four thousand, mostly female employees of the Belding brothers, Alvah and Hiram. The Beldings built the first of four factories in 1886 and paid their employees well, some made as much as sixteen dollars a week. In walking distance of the mills, they built three more buildings called Clubs in which the girls, many of them recruited from farms far beyond the town, could feel at home.

In 1914, Bruce Calvert, an advertising writer hired by the Belding Brothers, wrote:

In these Clubs the girls have every comfort and convenience of the ordinary good hotel, much superior really to the dormitory service in high class colleges. Cozy, comfortable rooms, hot and cold water, plenty of bath rooms, lavatories with latest sanitary appliances, laundry, playgrounds, reception and reading rooms, music rooms, sewing rooms supplied with machines and cutting boards, and three good meals a day, all for $2.50 a week!

Julia lived in one of these Clubs and worked one of the Beldings’ five hundred looms. Using silk strands that had been paired, twisted, spun, dyed, and wound onto bobbins, she created silk cloths used for lining petticoats, suits, cloaks, and dresses.

What I learned while researching but kept out

Long before dating aps like tinder or eharmony, there were “Toe Socials” in Belding. Some of the women who worked in the silk mills would sit behind a sheet, stick their toes out from the bottom of it and men would bid for a date based on the toes displayed.

If my grandmother ever participated in these events, she never told me. If you read Kissing the World Goodbye, you know it was her long, dark hair and not her toes that caught my grandfather’s eyes.

The idea of toe socials is super quirky and part of me wanted to include it in the book. So why didn’t I? In the first chapter, “A Fleeting History of Phylum, Class, Order, and Family,” (from which I pulled the above excerpt), most of the action revolves around my father. I wanted to ground him in place (both Michigan and Tasmania) to give readers a sense of where he came from and what led him to love invertebrates.

… But World War I shook the silk road, and as silk unraveled from fashion, my father was born in Belding. As Julia did with all four of her children, she spun her youngest son at home. In 1928, Joseph Engemann spilled onto a brass bed and into a town of dyers, winders, spoolers, and weavers. Belding’s last silk mill closed in 1932.

Trying to also weave in “Toe Socials” would have seriously diluted the focus.

Leave a comment

Share

Well, campers, it’s our last week of Writing Without a Net Summer Camp. Let’s talk about writers.

Who is one of your favorite authors? Mine is Annie Dillard. I remember the moment I first met one of her books. It was 1990 and I was living in Pittsburgh. I walked into a bookstore in Shadyside and picked up The Writer’s Life.

You don’t have to be a writer to appreciate all the bits of wisdom packed in this book. Try this tiny experiment and read this quote from The Writer’s Life:

Now read it again, but this time, replace “writing” with “living.”

See what I mean?

Her words inspired me to come up with a couple of writing prompts. I’m hoping you’ll try one of them out. Or, at the very least, discuss aloud with your cat, your sister, or her new and highly anxious dog.

Writing tips

Here are some basics to keep in mind:

• To quiet the critical voice in your head, let your hand do the writing.

• With each prompt, write for 10 minutes without stopping.

• Don’t worry about spelling or punctuation.

• Don’t worry if what you are writing doesn’t make sense.

• Just write.

Ready? Let’s do this!

Two prompts

Bonus prompt

Share

I’ll leave you with another one of her gems:

Oh, I almost forgot. She did slip peacocks into her poem, “Feast Days.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed camp. This is the last week you have a chance to be entered into the drawing, so send me (via the comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) any outstanding activities you completed from previous weeks. (A pic of your favorite place to nap counts.)

Leave a comment

Notes:

• Annie Dillard was born in Pittsburgh in 1945 and grew up in this colonial home in Point Breeze that is included in her memoir, An American Childhood. After writing The Maytrees (2007), she chose to stop writing (after 40 years!) and started reading, walking, and painting.

• Can you name all the poets included in the last prompt image? I did use ChatGPT in developing this image but wasn’t pleased with how it turned out so ended up doing a lot of cutting and pasting of poets’ heads.

• Cover image (minus the words) by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay.

It’s shameful how many summer camps do not involve adult beverages. But thanks to my sister, we’re celebrating our seventh week of summer camp in style. Only one more week of camp remains.

NoMo Recipe

Back on July 11th, my sister said, “It’s National Mojito Day. Wanna come over and enjoy a blueberry mojito on the chicken deck?”

When I arrived at her house, I quickly realized she had lured me under false pretenses.* She didn’t have enough lime or mint, but her garden was bursting with lemon balm, so she made up this recipe for what turned out to be a rather refreshing drink.

Ingredients (per drink):

•	blueberries, 4-5
•	1 sprig of lemon balm
•	1 lemon slice & 1 lemon peel
•	3 small glugs (1/2 to 1 oz.) of blueberry simple syrup 
•	pinch of turbinado sugar (but any raw sugar will do)
•	Prosecco

Directions:

Muddle the first five ingredients. My sister says adding a pinch of sugar helps to release the lemon oil from the lemon peel.

Divide evenly between glasses and top with Prosecco. If you prefer a clearer look to your drink, you can omit the blueberry syrup.

For an even more flamboyant look, order these edible peacock drink toppers from ZenCatShop on Etsy for $9.81:

Can’t get enough peacock drinks? The Macallan, one of the first distillers in Scotland, has a recipe for “The Peacock”:

I would make this cocktail except the only ingredient I currently have is the ice.

Cheers to peacocks!

Leave a comment

*I kind of feel like I did the same thing as my sister and lured you here under false pretenses with the mojito image for cover this post (created by Alexas_Fotos of Pixabay).

We’ve made it to Week 6 of Summer Camp, my fellow campers! Let’s hone in on peacocks today.

While doing research for Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions, I came across a number of interesting tidbits about peacocks. Here’s two things I learned:

Cry of the peacock

Early Christians believed that peacocks were highly offended by their unnattractive feet. This explained the peacock’s shrill cry every time they caught sight of them!

Symbol of eternal life

Pagans believed peacock’s flesh never decayed. This belief carried forth in time and it was helped along by St. Augustine who made note of this in his writings. By the end of the second century, the peacock had found its way into Christian art, buildings, medieval manuscripts, and catacombs.

Taking this into account, it’s easy to see how the peacock became a symbol of resurrection, renewal, and immortality.

Upon learning all this, I was inspired to write this poem:

Resurrection here, among the tombs

Step down and enter this wildly forgotten and open
place dug into earth’s bowels, diggers long dead, a scene 
of temporary burials where life emerges from decay;
just ask the one who sways your way—the regal peacock.
In this underground offering, graffiti and prayers feather
catacomb walls where benches once lined up like trains,

waiting for families to picnic with their dead. A train
of ridiculously long feathers sweeps the dark, an open                                    
invitation from this groom garbed in watchful feathers
as he dances for his dull bride who’s fled the scene.
Vehicle of forgotten gods and guests, the peacock 				
cries, then flies away, lamps quiver amidst decay.

Even though each century deposits its own decay,
Christ mixes into the mud of history. Hands train
to take away the hardened womb of days: peacock,
dove, and lamb restored, visible once more. Open
the catacombs, a tangle of tombs rarely seen,
here, martyrs’ bones stirred by feathers.

But then, the bird shrugs off its finery of tail feathers;
beauty scatters. As another season incites decay 
plumage of darkness spreads and obscures the scene.          
Do not run away. Wait for splendor to arrive. Train
yourself to stay, just be. When the dazzling returns, open
your eyes. Don’t be afraid to touch the shimmering peacock

perched above the stable. Head in the stars, the peacock
reflects the light with its new cascading coat of feathers.
He cries out, awakens the graves of thieves and saints, open
now to mystery, to flesh that lives and won’t ever decay.
No need for tickets, just board the everything-is-possible train.
First stop: a beardless, baby God at the nativity scene.

Flannery O’Conner once wrote a scene
in which there entered a stunning peacock—
tail “flowed out on either side like a floating train”
and then upon witnessing the spread of feathers
her priest declared, “Christ will come like that!” Decay
shall be no more, the extravagance of God open

to all who take in the final scene, showered in feathers.
Behold, the peacock’s flesh does not decay.
Heed the call to ride this wild train; for you, the door is open. 

Form

This poem, which is included in Intercede, is a sestina. Like the peacock, the sestina is a bit showy.

Originating in France around 1200, these type of poems are 39 lines long. After you create your first six-line stanza, you then put the end words from that stanza in a certain pattern throughout the next five stanzas.

These are my end words: A=open, B=scene, C=decay, D=peacock, E=feathers, and F=train. You’ll notice that I took the liberty of converting “scene” to “seen” in the third stanza. I also used train and feathers as both nouns and verbs. (One thing I’ve learned along the way is that sestinas turn out better if you use nouns and verbs rather than adjectives for end words.)

You conclude the poem with a tercet (three lines) that includes all six end words. The pattern looks like this:

Want another example of a sestina? Here’s “I’m obsessed with my wife” by Nicole Steinberg. (Warning: It’s funny, but involves nakedness.)

“Eternity has its roots in the dark.” That is one of many lovely lines in this video. This underground world stretches more that 7 miles underneath Rome and is the birthplace of some of the first Christian art.

Reminder: To be entered into the drawing for prize at end of camp, send me (via the comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) your completed activity. I’m also accepting any late homework from previous weeks.

Leave a comment

It’s Field Trip Day, campers! Put on your backpacks because we’re hiking to the Gallery of Inconsequential Art.

I spy with my little eye

On the way there, let’s first stop by Donna Carrol’s garden, one of our very own campers! Can you spy something that starts with a “p” in her garden?

Now we’re passing Home Goods. What do you spy in the entranceway?

We’ve arrived at the gallery and and we’re just in time for the highly unanticipated unveiling of this exhibit’s fourth piece, “Anonymous Fan.”

Exhibit 1A, #4: Anonymous Fan

Artist’s Statement:

Blue Dolphin is a much loved Greek restaurant in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I’m not sure if they have fans like this, but I think the blue windowsill looks like two dolphins having a conversation with the fan.

What the Artist is Ashamed to Tell You:

I was having breakfast at Blue Dolphin with my godson, his sister, mom, and grandpa and I bragged that one of the people at a nearby table was one of my “biggest fans.” As they were leaving, I waved and said, “Hello!” They completely ignored me, and JP, my godson, said, “It appears you have an anonymous fan.” We couldn’t stop laughing (even though it was at my ego’s expense).

About the Artist:

One of the artist’s favorite childhood pastimes was poring over the newspaper comics at her grandfather’s cottage on Horsehead Lake in Big Rapids, Michigan. As she lay on her stomach in front of a box fan, she had to keep one arm on the newspaper to keep it from blowing away.

After she was done reading them, she’d press Silly Putty into her favorite comic. Back in those days, the ink used in the paper allowed the image to be transferred onto the putty. She’d then stretch and manipulate the image for what felt like hours.

Leave a comment

Links to previously unveiled works

Exhibit 1A, #1: The Grand Opening:

Exhibit 1A, #2: Pepper at Attention:

Exhibit 1A, #3: Abandoned Strawberry:

Note: Cover image is from Peggy_Marco of Pixabay. I added the words and the backpacks. Here’s an enlarged view:

Share

Welcome to week 5 of Writing Without a Net Summer Camp.

If you read Kissing the World Goodbye, you know I basically had a tantrum over my brother and sister trying to convince me to buy a pressure cooker.

Being the luddite that I am (see post in which I reference my luddite tendencies), I refused to cave in to their pressure. However, some months after my memoir was published, a pressure cooker arrived in the mail. It was a gift from my brother. “Just try it,” he said.

Eating crow

I did, and I LOVED using it. In fact, I use it so often that I keep it on the kitchen counter.

I momentarily toyed with the idea of purchasing a peacock pressure cooker dust cover protector off of Amazon for $17.99. However, I’ve only ever ordered off Amazon twice in my life and had so many issues (see: luddite) that I will just wait to see if any of the local stores eventually carry this beauty.

Seven poets ate peacock

“On 18 January 1914, seven poets gathered to eat peacock.” So begins Lucy McDiarmid’s book Poets & The Peacock Dinner: The Literary History of a Meal.

Here’s an image of the poets taken that same day as the dinner:

By most accounts, the peacock wasn’t that tasty. Having a pressure cooker might have helped. From what I read on a “hunting & shooting” forum, the trick to serving a tender peacock is to cook it in a pressure cooker with some Garam masala. It creeps me out to think about eating a peacock.

What came first? The poem or the dinner?

Let’s cleanse our palate with a poem written by William Butler Yeats in 1913, one year before he attended the famous peacock dinner. At that time, a young Ezra Pound (also pictured above) was serving as his secretary.

The Peacock

What's riches to him
That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
And desolate Three Rock
Would nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay
Adding feather to feather
For the pride of his eye.

Leave a comment

Notes:

• I recently heard from a reader (and fellow luddite) who is in the midst of reading Kissing the World Goodbye. She said, “I just finished the chapter about the pressure cooker and can’t stop laughing.” She also shared that her aunt had been injured by one years ago (burned her arm and neck), so she now refuses to use either a pressure cooker or an air fryer.

• To be entered into drawing for prize at end of camp, send me (via the comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) your completed activity.

Normally, this is where I’d start asking insightful and thought-provoking questions to help us get to know the winner. However, Norreen won the caption contest before this one and already answered a bunch of questions here:

And before that, she dished with us on food and books and her time spent cheering for the Steelers:

True Story & Quiz

When I walked into church this past Easter, I was approached by one of the greeters (who also happens to subscribe to Writing Without a Net). Guess what she greeted me with?:

If you picked E, you’d be correct (though I know she was also thinking D). Ever since, I’ve been toying with the idea of changing the name of my Substack to Writing With Norreen, Muse for Us All.

Dillemma

The caption winner receives a cartoon magnet and a certificate. I wondered, though, if Norreen wanted to clutter her fridge with yet another certificate. Fortunately, Norreen got me out of a real pickle. She suggested we forgo this formality and she’ll just add an addendum to the current certificate she proudly displays on her fridge. So I ended up mailing her a magnet and this little gem:

A few days ago, Norreen slapped on two of these undereye masks and sent me this photo:

Along with it, she wrote: Just a girl and her jar of pickles, dilling with the bags under her eyes and the stresses of the day. 🥒😁❤️

Picklesburgh

It’s kismet that Norreen came up with the winning caption as this week—from July 16th-19th—Pittsburgh is hosting its annual Picklesburgh Festival. With Norreen’s winning track record, she’s sure to win some fabulous prizes if she competes in the pickleball tournament, dill-cathlon games, and pickle juice drinking contest.

This was my mother-in-law’s recipe and a summertime favorite. She would add grilled hamburgers to the sauce. This was especially vital since she had seven children and it was an easy to feed all the kids at one time.

Grandma’s Barbecue Sauce

Ingredients:

1/4 c. butter
1 small onion diced
14 oz. ketchup
14 oz. water
1/4 c. brown sugar
1/2 T. dry mustard
1/2 T. vinegar
1 T. Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. sugar
Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Melt butter in medium saucepan and sauté onions till tender (about 4-5 minutes). Add ketchup, water, brown sugar, dry mustard, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, sugar, and salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for 10 to 15 minutes.

Notes: If you don’t have dry mustard, you can use 1/2 T. of your favorite prepared mustard. Also, if you want to add a smoky flavor to your sauce, you can add a teaspoon of smoked paprika or a dash or two of liquid smoke.

This sauce can be used on its own or I sometimes add some Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce (or your favorite) to make it go a little further.

This is a really good base for any barbecue sauce. Be creative and add your own touches as to what you and your family likes.

Extra Credit:

Attend the Picklesburgh Festival.

Remember, each time you send me (via comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) one of the camp activities you’ve completed (extra credit activities count), your name will automatically be entered into the drawing for a prize at the end of camp.

Leave a comment

Share

Welcome to week 2 of our 8 week Writing Without a Net Summer Camp.

Tai Chi

There is a sequence of movements in Tai Chi called “grasping the peacock’s tail,” at least that is what Glenda from the YMCA called it. My current Tai Chi teacher, Cheng Tao, calls it “grasping the sparrow’s tail,” but I still like to imagine a peacock when I’m doing this.

The poem

When Glenda tells us we are trees, I believe her

We look to the horizon and see ourselves, a grove
of trees with pink and white shoes, barky coughs, 
and rings of gold and silver. The willowy one, 
curiously bent, touches the plastic curled 
around his ear. We follow his move, not 
so much turning off the noisy world, 
as letting it flow around us.

Lifting our branches into the air, we
stand tall and resist through softness.
Some sway as Glenda leads the way, her 
breezy voice telling us to part the horse’s 
mane. Anything is possible. No longer tangled
in our own roots, we grasp the peacock’s tail 
and move clouds. Some of the trees forget to breathe. 

The form

This poem is free verse. It’s free from the constraints of meter and rhyming lines. While I’m not much for rhyming poems, I delight in internal rhymes and a few can be found here (sway/way and trees/breathe). You’ll notice that free verse sounds like everyday speech.

This, however, doesn’t mean the lines are free to do whatever they want. When I’m writing free verse—which is often—I listen to what the poem is trying to tell me and follow its lead. In the case of this poem, I’m capturing a snapshot of a Tai Chi class. Because Tai Chi is based on Yin Yang principles, I wanted the look of the poem to reflect the Tai Chi principle’s of balance and opposing forces. Two stanzas seemed the best way to do this. I also tried to make them look visually similar and opposite at the same time.

The revision stage

I feel like a sculptor when I’ve reached this stage. I’m ususally shaping the lines of the poem into natural pauses and breaking points. I’m cutting away excess words and scooping out end words (like a preposition) and placing them at the beginning of the next line. End words carry more weight as readers will pause (even infintesimally so) when reaching the end of the line, so it’s helpful to revise with this in mind. I’d much rather my readers pause on “tangled” than “in.”

The visual look of a poem can often help readers sink even deeper into whatever the poem is about without the poet having to spell it out in words. It’s almost magical!

Founding father?

If this image of Chef Tom Colicio as Walt Whitman looks familiar, that’s because I recycled it from this earlier post:

To be entered into drawing for prize at end of camp, send me (via the comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) your completed activity. (Sending a pic of you contemplating stillness counts.)

Leave a comment

Note:

The latest issue of Thorn & Bloom just came out. (The magazine is part of redrosethorns, a feminist independent press and literary community.) This issue is themed: The Body As Archive. It includes “The Smell of Distraction,” a short and uncomfortable piece I wrote that will also makes its way into my next memoir, Let’s Pretend This Is Fiction, Okay?, set to be released by Unsolicited Press in October of 2027.

Editor Kirsty Anne Richards is fabulous to work with and I’d encourage writers to submit here. She’s pulled together a beautiful issue exploring the body as an archive—a living record of memory, trauma, resilience, and delight. You can check out the magazine here.

Welcome to Week 1 of Writing Without a Net’s Summer Camp! I see some new faces in the crowd. Welcome! Let’s kick off camp with a poem I wrote.

Peacock Tanka

     Shuffling his feathers
     like a deck of playing cards,
     peacock can’t resist
     showing his entire hand
     to squirrel engrossed in acorn.

About the form

Tanka means “short song.” (In Japanese, tan means ‘short’ and ka means ‘song.’) Originating in the seventh century, this form is even older than haiku and has a lusty past. As a way to woo someone or show thanks for a fun night of passion, lovers would dash off a tanka and then exchange these morning-after gifts to express their feelings.

Technically, a tanka is untitled and contains no punctuation. As you can see, I took liberties and titled my poem and threw in a comma and period.

The five-line poem is non-rhyming, contains 31 syllables, and follows this pattern: 5/7/5/7/7 (equalling 31). The form lends itself well to metaphor and simile.

You often see a turn in the poem, usually starting in the third line. This shift might move from describing a scene or some aspect of nature and then lead into the human aspect of feelings and emotions, ideally without sentimentality.

Here’s another example of a tanka. This one is by Tada Chimako (1930-2003), an extraordinary Japanese poet. English readers can enjoy her haiku, tankas, and free verse thanks to Jeffrey Angles, an associate professor at Western Michigan University who translated some of her works in the book, Forest of Eyes.

A Spray of Water: Tanka

the hot water in
the abandoned kettle
slowly cools
still carrying the resentment
of colder water

Snack time

Today’s snack is brought to you by Kristi O’Brian of Vicksburg, Michigan. Enjoy!

Leave a comment

Notes

• Reminder: If you send me (via comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) any camp activities you do (such as a tanka or a pic of your dish inspired by Kristi’s fruit plate), your name will automatically be entered into the drawing for a prize at the end of camp.

• It’s normal to have first week jitters at camp. If you’re wondering why peacocks are a part of the experience, read last week’s post here:

How should we spend our summer together at Writing Without a Net? That is the question I’ve been asking myself for weeks. And then, while strolling through Bronson Park one day, it hit me.

Over the course of your life, how often have you considered the peacock?

I used to think about these birds alot because about 20 years ago we had a neighborhood peacock who visited daily and would eat out of our hands. Here he is with my son:

I have this tendency to feel guilty about weird things. So because I feel a bit guilty that I haven’t recently devoted time to thinking about these beautiful birds, I’m going to make them a part of our summer camp experience!

Throughout the next 8 weeks, peacocks will crop up in unexpected ways. I’ve written a few poems in which peacocks have managed to peck their way into a stanza or two. I’ll sprinkle them into your camp experience and we’ll discuss the various forms these poems take. You’ll also have a chance to write a poem in this form.

A unique experience

Summer camp experiences woefully fail to take into account peacocks and adult beverages, but not so at Writing Without a Net! (I’m crossing my fingers that my sister will help me come up with a peacocktail that will be worthy of sharing.) You can magnify the fun of camp in two ways:

1. Each week, you’ll have an opportunity to do one or more activities. Every time you send me (via the comment button or by emailing me at writingwithoutanet.substack.com) one of your completed activities, your name will automatically be entered into a drawing. At the end of camp, we’ll draw a name from a hat and you could end up winning a fabulous t-shirt that may look something like this:

   

2. Bring a friend with you to our summer camp so they can share in the fun. Invite them now!

Share

See you next week, campers!

Note:

I mentioned two Friends of Poetry events in this recent post:

Here is a pic from the ekphrastic workshop I facilitated at the poetry carnival we held at the Portage Library. We did three back-to-back workshops (like speed dating but it was poetry).

And this past Wednesday, Friends of Poetry celebrated its 50th birthday at the Kalamazoo Institute of Arts.

.Among other things, we ate cake and held a raffle. My house is way less cluttered now that these 22 baskets are out of the house! It was fun pulling them together with the help of some of my poet friends.

Leave a comment

It’s voting day/week here at Writing Without a Net.

Thanks to everyone who submitted a caption for our fourth Caption this Cartoon Contest. As I was drawing this cartoon, no captions came to mind. But I wasn’t worried because I knew Writing Without a Net readers would come through. And you did.

The five finalists

A. I’m a pretty big dill!

B. Cucumbers have found that inserting a human being provides a cool and refreshing spa experience.

C. I scrubbed with a cucumba to remove my penumbra.

D. Dilling with the stresses of the day.

E. How am I going to reach that towel without any arms?

Take the poll

Vote now by finding the letter/starting words that correspond to your favorite caption listed above.

Here are the honorable mentions

• Who turned out the lights?

• I’ve got myself into a real pickle.

• I feel seedy inside.

• If I stay in here one more minute, I’ll turn into a prune.

• Cucumber, take me away.

Thanks again to all who submitted captions and/or took the time to vote. The winner (and proud owner of cartoon magnet with their caption) will be announced in the weeks to come.

Leave a comment

How fun to open the June issue of Encore Magazine and see that Seeding Hope: Two Decades of Promise Stories made Kazoo Books “Five Faves” in this month’s issue!

You can read what they say about it here.

This same issue also features Friends of Poetry. I’m on the board of this nonprofit and we’re celebrating 50 years of bringing people and poetry together.

You can read the online version of the article here.

This coming Thursday from 7 p.m.- 8:30 p.m., Friends of Poetry will be running a Poetry Carnival at the Portage Public Library for people of all ages. No poetry experience required. If you live in the area, consider signing up here for this fun night poetry poker, typewriter races, and several workshops. I’ll be running an ekphrastic workshop. We’ll wrap it up with an open mic reading for those who want to share something they’ve written during the evening.

Ekphrastic poetry

I tested out the workshop last week with a group of 7th graders at St. Augustine Cathedral School and they did a fantastic job of coming up with some really interesting work that spoke to the image they received.

In ancient Greece, ekphrasis referred to a work of art in one medium that was produced in response to a piece of art created in another medium. It translates to “description.”

You might recall the poem I wrote that was inspired by a cigar box in the Kalamazoo Valley Museum. That is an example of an ekphrastic poem.

Homework

I’m going to leave you with a couple of images. Pick one of the images and have a conversation with the work. Turn it into a poem.

Images:

The above images are from a stash I’ve collected over the years. I clipped these out of The New Yorker.

Don’t like these options? You can also respond to this image that is this month’s Ekphrastic Challenge at Rattle Magazine. Or take on The Ekphrastic Review’s latest challenge here. (If you end up submitting it, let me know!)

Ask questions of your image:

• What happened moments before this scene? What will happen afterwards? What is just beyond view (beyond the hill, beyond the frame of the picture)

  ?

• What can you hear/smell/feel in this work? Is anyone or anything saying something? How does the character(s) feel? What are they wondering? What are they worried about?

• Does this work connect to me in any way? If so, how?

• Why ….? How come …?

Write for 5 minutes without stopping:

• Let your hand do the work.

• Don’t edit, don’t critique, and don’t worry about spelling.

• Let your hand and imagination lead you.

Revise your draft:

• Where does the poem begin? First line? In the middle? Last line?

• Look over for consistency (punctuation, voice, tense).

• Remove unnecessary words. (green grass)

• Are verbs as strong as they can be? (slowly walked sauntered)

• Can any additional word choices/phrases be improved upon?

• Read it aloud. Clean up any jarring or awkward sounds. Play around with your piece until you are satisfied.

Leave a comment

Note: Cover image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay.

Time to play

Come up with a caption for the below cartoon and send it to me via the comment button below or email me your caption(s) at writingwithoutanet@substack.com. In the subject line, write: or else.

In a few weeks, you’ll have the chance to vote for one of the top five captions. I’ll also share the complete list of captions received because it’s fun to see them all.

The winner of the contest will receive a magnet (cartoon with their caption on it), an official-looking certificate, and be featured in Writing Without a Net.

Here’s the cartoon

Allow previous winners to inspire you

Leave a comment or your caption here

Cover image by Chen from Pixabay.

Welcome once again to the …

Exhibit 1A, #3: ABANDONED STRAWBERRY

About the Artist

Anonymous prefers raspberries over strawberries. Fruit as subject matter is a departure from her vegetable drawings.

Artist’s Statement

I was making chocolate covered strawberries and one flew out of my hand and landed on the floor. I decided to do an experiment and see how long it would take my husband to notice. After two days, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I picked it up, threw it away, and started drawing strawberries.

What you may not know is that strawberries are the only fruit that wears its seeds on the outside. In fact, botanists consider the seeds to be the actual fruit. Each strawberry has about 200 seeds, so adding the seeds was a lot of extra work.

If you missed the unveiling of earlier works, here are those links:

Exhibit 1A, #1: The Grand Opening:

Exhibit 1A, #2: Pepper at Attention

Leave a comment

While working on my latest manuscript, I had a slew of stress dreams. I don’t recall ever having these kind of anxiety-provoking dreams associated with other writing projects I’ve done in the past. However, since I managed to get Let’s Pretend This is Fiction, Okay? off to my publisher, I’m just crossing my fingers that this latest batch of stress dreams is over.

Let’s unpack the last one I had.

The dream

Summer, the publisher/managing editor of Unsolicited Press, flies out to Kalamazoo to meet with me at The Kalamazoo Country Club (of which I’m not a member). She says that even though Unsolicited Press has published three of my books already, they aren’t pleased with how any of them turned out. “We’ve just been humoring you,” she says. “And you know what? We believe this new memoir will be the worst one yet.”

Just as I’m about to defend my manuscript, Margaret DeRitter (another UP author and friend of mine whom I’ve referenced in this post here) busts in on the meeting and says I’ve gone over my allotted time with UP and now it’s her turn to talk with them, and then I’m kicked out of the club.

Margaret’s book that I highly recommend:

The setting

The last time I was at the Kalamazoo Country Club was a number of years ago and I was standing in front of a podium before a large group and didn’t want to open my mouth. It felt like a stress dream, only it was real.

At the time, I was the project director for Communities In Schools of Kalamazoo. I’d accepted an invitation to give a Monday morning breakfast talk about this nonprofit to a group of women. Unfortunately, over the weekend, one of my front teeth literally crumbled as I was showering. Only a jagged shard remained and I couldn’t get into the dentist until Monday afternoon.

After the talk, one woman came over, patted my hand, and said something like, “We ladies were sitting too far away for any of us to notice your missing tooth.”

I blame my piano teacher

I had injured the tooth years earlier while playing the piano. My piano teacher, Betty Engelke, had just gotten a brand new grand piano and during the lesson she said something that made me laugh. While gaffawing, I banged my head down on the piano and somehow managed to chomp into her beautiful grand. Even though she was surprisingly gracious about it, I found it difficult to concentrate throughout the rest of the lesson as my mouth hurt and I couldn’t take my eyes off the bite marks embedded in her shiny, new piano.

The tooth eventually turned black and I ended up having to have a root canal. Not long after this unfortunate incident, Mrs. Engelke told my mom I needed to switch to another piano teacher. I don’t know if it was because she was retiring or because I messed up her piano.

What experts say

Unlike nightmares, which are terrifying and often bizarre, stress dreams feel like real life and are triggered by worries, stressors, or unresolved issues. Losing a tooth is one of the most common stress/anxiety dreams people have, along with dreaming that they are being chased, finding themselves in an embarrassing situation, and running late for something important.

What types of stress dreams have you experienced?

Have you ever injured yourself while playing a musical instrument?

Leave a comment

Notes:

Cover image by Daniel R. from PIxabay. Piano image by Audrey Hunt from Pixabay.

Here’s a glimpse into some of the writerly occurrences I’ve been involved with over the course of a week. For your reading pleasure, I’ve sifted out the mind-numbing boring stuff, like doing laundry, cleaning, and re-caulking the bathtub.

1. Manuscript completed

For the past year, I’ve been working ferociously on my second memoir, Let’s Pretend This is Fiction, Okay?. I polished off this draft and sent it to my publisher hours in advance of the deadline. If you enjoyed my first memoir, Kissing the World Goodbye (also published by Unsolicited Press), you’ll like this one too, although the first half is quite dark (but funny at times). It’s not slated to come out until October of 2027.

My husband half-jokingly asked me if I was now ready to start my third memoir. I told him that when you are born into a family like mine, you have a responsibility to do something with the great material they give you. Right now, however, I’m going to focus on some other writing projects and unfinished poems that I’ve neglected.

2. Saintly coincidence

Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions just celebrated its first birthday, but you already know this if you read last week’s post about the book’s playlist.

No sooner had I finished that post than I received a request from OLLI (the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at Western Michigan University) to offer another “Five Secrets to Living Life to the Fullest, a class they said was one of their most “popular classes.” (That was nice to hear!) I created “Five Secrets” based on what I learned from doing research for my saint book. So if you live in the Kalamazoo area and haven’t had a chance to take this class or took it but forget the pearls of wisdom I tossed your way, stay alert for the registration for their fall courses. (No previous knowledge of saints or how to live fully is neccessary.)

3. Publication

Pure Slush is a literary magazine that began 15 years ago in Germany and is now based out of Australia. Founding Editor Matt Potter has taken several of my pieces over the years and says Pure Slush is just “the right combination of highbrow and trashy.” One of the joys of being a writer is developing relationships with editors. Matt is a delight to work with and one day I hope to visit Australia and buy him a beer.

As a nod to 15 years of Pure Slush publishing, their latest anthology, “Fifteen,” was officially released on May 4th. It has 73 writers mulling over the significance of ‘15.’ I’m so happy that “A Crash Course in Chemistry” is included. (It will also be included in my next memoir.)

A “taste” of Fifteen can be found here.

4 & 4 1/2. Submissions

Heard back from editor Julie Kissel that my nonfiction piece, “Uncircled Sides,” was accepted for an upcoming anthology, Things Left Unsaid: Words that Matter. This piece is actually a letter I wrote to my dead typing teacher and it will also be included in my not yet released memoir.

I also sent out three submissions. I’ve been quite slack in this area as I’ve been focused on finishing the memoir, so it felt good to toss out some work for consideration. I forgot how much time it takes to do this!

5. Professional development

I attended “The Secret Life of an Obit Writer,” a zoom event hosted by Narratively Academy. Lee Gutkind interviewed New York Times obituary writer Michael Roswenwald. He shared how he decides what to include and what to leave out of a person’s life story. One interesting piece of advice he tossed out about obituary writing—and I think this can hold true for other forms of writing, like memoir—is to find that “pivot” in a person’s life. Figuring out that moment and why it was important, and unpacking what was happening around that time, is a good place to start. The pivot is not always obvious, but once you find it, he said, you should “mine the hell out of it.”

Side note: I’ve finally let go of the mild grudge I’ve held against Lee Gutkind for decades. I met Gutkind—whom Vanity Fair dubbed the “Godfather” of the creative nonfiction genre—when I was in my twenties and living in Pittsburgh. He was a guest visitor to a creative writing class that I was taking at The University of Pittsburgh. I asked him a question and took great offense when he remarked that no one really has anything important to say/write about if they are under 30.

6. Writer’s group

My poetry group meets every two weeks, but my attendance has been a bit spotty lately, so I was thrilled that I could make it this time. Since Covid, we’ve gotten into the habit of emailing one or two poems in advance. When we gather in person, we read them aloud and give/listen to feedback. This week, after reading one of the poems, I had to look up a word I never heard of before: vassal. I asked my poet friends if anyone else was unfamiliar with the word. Everyone else knew what it was.

Notes:

• The cover image of the typewriter is thanks to a Writing Without a Net subscriber who loves old things. (Thank you, Nancy K!) I just added some words onto the paper.

• The artwork portraying the vassar is from 1471 and is in the public domain. The artist is unknown.

Leave a comment

Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions turns one year old this week! To celebrate, I’m sharing the playlist for this book. You may be wondering, Why has it taken Jennifer a full year to release this playlist? Is she some kind of marketing genius and this is part of her amazing, but unconventional, rollout plan?

The answer to that last question is, no, I’m more of a Luddite than a marketing genius. I’ll tell you why it’s taken so long.

Backstory about the playlist

In December 2024, my publisher, Unsolicited Press, encouraged each of us authors whose 38 books they were publishing as part of their 2025 Year of Womxn project to create a playlist that could accompany our book.

I immediately panicked as I was only vaguely familiar with the term “playlist.” I knew it must involve some level of technical proficiency (not my strong suit) because people would be able to “stream it” on “Spotify.” I looked up “playlist” and learned that it is the modern day version of a mixed tape, just digitalized. Unless you’re a Luddite like me, you probably already knew that.

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, my brother did a most excellent job of making mixed tapes for me.

Digitalized playlists started coming on the scene in 2000. I don’t know where I’ve been for the past 26 years, but I’m hip to it now. (Are people still saying “hip?”)

It took me a while, but I figured out Spotify (kind of), curated 15 songs that best vibe with this book, and then read up on how to embed it into Writing Without a Net to share widely. Hopefully, I’ve done it correctly and you can FINALLY enjoy this playlist as much as I do. I listen to it in the car, while I’m cooking, after I’ve re-read a poem or two from the book, and when I’m gardening.

About the playlist for Intercede

Here’s a sentence or two about each of the songs.

1. Halo/Beyonce

This is the first song I picked. My college-age son actually suggested it and I thought it was perfect.

2. Goodness of God/CeCe Winans

Even a fervent atheist would enjoy listening to this gospel singer belt out this song.

3. When the Saints Go Marching In/Louis Armstrong

A month before Intercede was released, I wrote a post in which both the title and subtitle were a nod to this classic song.

4. Take Me To Church/Hozier"

Not only is this super catchy, but Hozier, the Irish singer/songwriter has said that this song is about “asserting yourself and reclaiming your humanity through an act of love."

5. I Say A Little Prayer/Aretha Franklin

The saints in Intercede don’t wait for special times to pray. Like in this song, prayer is infused throughout the day and while doing ordinary things, whether it’s combing one’s hair, getting dressed, or riding a bus.

6. Angel/Sarah McLachlan

Such beautiful, haunting lyrics. This particular line—There's always some reason/To feel not good enough—reminds me of a number of saints in the book, like Saint Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) who refused to follow the norms of the day and stay home and be silent. Though she occassionally doubted herself, she didn’t give up.

Because I didn’t feel worthy enough to write a book about saints, I wrote a post about why I deserved to write about saints.

7. Rise Up/Andra Day

One characteristic I admire about many of the saints I wrote about (Martin Porres comes immediately to mind) is that these individuals hang on, even in the midst of difficulties, and they refuse to let others define them. Martin, by example, also inspired others to rise up.

8. Saint James Infirmary/Cab Calloway & His Orchestra

Along with my wildly talented cousin Jill, Saint James’ Place and Saint James with his “camel-like knees” show up in the poem, “Anatomy of a Prayer.”

9. Your Song/Elton John

With a few exceptions, the saints in Intercede are not wealthy. Many shower those around them with their time, talents, and resources, making their communities better. How wonderful life is while you’re in the world.

10. Feels Like Home/Bonnie Raitt

While some might take up this song as being about romantic love, I think the saints would interprete “Feels Like Home,” written by Randy Newman, as finding love and purpose in relationship with God. This is what the saints are always aspiring to, and some are more successful than others; but they continue to strive.

11. The Story/Brandi Carlile

We are all made up of stories and this song is yet another love story. One reader of Intercede told me she was “pleasantly surprised” by the poems because they were each “mini stories” and she could understand them.

12. It’s a Miracle/Barry Manilow

In writing Intercede, I was more interested in uncovering the real person behind the miracles because, in my opinion, people and their struggles are much more interesting than their purported miracles and amazing feats. For Barry Manilow, the miracle is sweet: coming home to love after traveling.

13. Girl on Fire/Alisha Keys

This song reminds me of Thecla, Monica, Catherine of Alexandria, Mother Teresa and a host of other badass women featured in Intercede.

One of my readers (this past year, he and his wife read a poem/corresponding note at back of book each morning and discussed) sent me a clipping about a new book, The Girl Who Baptised Herself: How a Lost Scripture About a Saint Named Thecla Reveals the Power of Knowing Our Worth. The author, Meggan Watterson, is a feminist theologian and I can’t wait to get my hands on this book.

14. Missionary Man/Eurythmics

This song moves me. Literally. My body refuses to stay still when I hear this song (see poem, “The unfinished dance of the unreliable legend, St. Vitus.”) I once cut my index finger while cooking and dancing to “Missionary Man.” For safety reasons, I no longer listen to this in the car or while handling sharp knives.

Annie Lennox wrote this song not long after divorcing a devout Hari Krishna and said, “You have to beware of people giving you answers to everything.” This song is a cautionary tale of how some political and religious figures manipulate. My poem, “The Lost Art of Playing the Fool,” shows how Saint Simeon afflicted the comfortable and would “Enter churches to wrench the pious from their piety.” There have always been politicians and religious officials who have used saints and religion to manipulate its citizens. (See note that accompanies the poem, “St. Genevieve, Patron Saint of Disasters, Fever, and Paris (422-512 A.D.).”

15. One of Us/Joan Osborne

If we all asked what this song asks: What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us … we would be treating the poor, the foreigner, the immigrant, the fill-in-the-blank person, with the dignity they deserve. (See most all the poems in Intercede, including the one about Jeanne de la Noue, “Patron Saint of the Selfish, Who Once Wore the Most Exquisite Clothes.”)

Thank you

Over this past year, I can’t say enough thank you’s to those of you who …

… purchased Intercede (for yourself and/or as gifts for others),

… took the time to tell me (via email, letter, and in person) some of your thoughts after you read the book,

… stocked Intercede on your store bookshelves,

… invited me to read or facilitate a saintly workshop or training,

… interviewed me,

… wrote a review of the book,

… showed up to my readings and other saintly events,

… attempted the 2025 Reading & Writing Saint Challenge,

… showed up and continue to return each week to be part of this Writing Without a Net community.

I’m grateful for all your support.

Thank you not

No thanks to that one person who never told me their name but approached me after a reading to let me know that my study guide to Intercede was “awful.” Apparently, they don’t get my humor, nor do they understand that a bad idea is a bad idea. I feel badly for the people who are in their book club.

Notes

• It will be fun to see what happens as Intercede enters the “terrible twos.”

• If you haven’t had a chance to get your hands on Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions yet, I’d encourage you to purchase your copy from Unsolicited Press, Asterism, Kazoo Books, this is a bookstore/Bookbug, or Dog Ear Books.

• My understanding is that if you don’t have a Spotify app/account, you’ll be able to see the playlist, but you can’t listen to it. If you are so motivated, you can always sign up for a free account and listen to it (and other stuff).

Leave a comment

Welcome back to the Gallery of Inconsequential Art.

Before unveiling this exhibit’s second work, I must say that it’s quite surprising that Abbott Laboratories—the owners and manufacturers of Ensure—have yet to contact me.

I thought for sure one of their employees would stumble across Writing Without a Net and be so moved by the “Tower of Babel,” the (above) first piece that kicked off this exhibit, that they would not only purchase it, but would commission more Ensure work. It’s a shame, because the anonymous artist had a great concept for Ensure NutriVigor for older adults and it could have really boosted their brand.

Once you’ve had ample time to admire today’s artwork, be sure to check out the artist’s statement and bio.

Exhibit IA, #2:

Artist’s statement

I was at Tiffany’s Restaurant and waiting for my French toast when I noticed the salt and pepper shakers on the table.

It’s rather ironic, but if you stare at “Pepper at Attention” for several minutes, even though the work is loaded with salt, you’ll actually lower your blood pressure.

About the artist

To their recollection, Anonymous has never used a salt shaker in a restaurant. Pepper, yes. But salt, no.

Anytime the artist notices people salting their food without first tasting it, she recalls this story her mother told her when she was old enough to start job-seeking:

Someone who did the hiring for their company took the finalists to a restaurant to interview them. If a candidate salted their food before tasting it, that individual would no longer be considered for employment.

Unrelated Note:

While every month to me is Poetry Month, the official “Poetry Month” of April is winding down. I love what Unsolicited Press has to say about it:

National Poetry Month does not create that importance. It reveals it. Poetry is not a luxury. It is a necessity.

With a few days left in April, consider taking advantage of their generous offer: buy one poetry book, get one free! Just shop their poetry books here. (If you don’t have either of my two poetry books that they’ve published, Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions and A Beginner’s Guide to Heaven, now would be a great time to get them. They have tons of great choices, so shop away!

Leave a comment

Just to change things up, I’m tossing some fiction your way. If you read The Hollow and Magnet Chick, two other fiction pieces featured earlier in Writing Without a Net, you know that my fiction writing veers into magic realism. I enjoy exploring a realistic world in which one thing is off and seeing how this one surreal element impacts a character’s sense of self and place.

Love in the Obituaries

In death, one can find love. Ernest knows this because he had found it every night for the past three years. His hands tremble in anticipation as he rinses a dinner plate and places it next to the cup on the dish rack. Between washing spoon and fork, he takes a break. Leaning against the kitchen sink, Ernest gazes beyond the open window and into his backyard garden.

For seven decades, his hands have worked this small piece of earth. He recalls his mother placing seeds, sometimes no bigger than an eyelash into the palm of his hand. He was amazed, and still is, that life can spring from but a sliver.

His eyes travel the lavender-lined brick path he laid down the year after his father’s death. The path leads to a bench at the back of the garden. On either side of the bench, clumps of pink and white peonies nod off, their perfumed heads too drowsy to be aroused by the evening breeze. This was his mother’s favorite spot. Each morning, he would wheel her into the garden, scoop her out of the wheelchair, and gently set her on the bench. Even after she had forgotten her own son’s name, surrounded by a profusion of earth and sage and lilies, she could summon the words: iris, peony, tulip ...

He has been faithful to this garden, having taken leave only to attend college and then pursue graduate work in Classical Studies. If his parents had not become ill, he might not have returned, might have led a less solitary existence. But he is grateful for the garden, has tended it with care and the garden, in turn, has treated him well.

No joy is so great in a life of seclusion as that of gardening, he says aloud, quoting from memory a line from his favorite poem, “Hortulus,” written by the 9^th century monk, Walafrid Strabo.

Finished with his nightly chore, Ernest shuffles into the living room and sinks into his chair. After catching his breath, he leans over and after some doing—for his fingers are warped and knotted from time—he clicks on the table lamp. Rolled up on the edge of the table, glowing with promise, lays tonight’s newspaper. Gingerly, he picks it up and lifts the newspaper to his nose. He inhales papery hope, tinged with ink. Love lingers here, for someone is tucked inside, waiting for him.

He stands the rolled-up newspaper on the table. With the palms of his hands, he eases the rubber band down the length of the paper, like a groom removing the garter from his bride’s leg.

With a shaky finger, Ernest absently nudges his bifocals. Resting the open paper on his bony legs, he turns to the obituary section.

“Obitus,” said Ernest, standing before his class. “Say it with me.”

“Obitus,” replied the class in unison.

“The Latin word ‘obitus’ is the root of the word ‘obituary.’ Obitus means ‘departure’ or ‘encounter.’ Some argue that the Romans were searching for a euphemism for death.”

“What’s a euphemism, Mr. S?” shouted Anthony, sprawled out in his chair. The boy is all legs and arms.

The girl slouching in the seat in front of Anthony spoke up. “It’s using a different word to make something sound better than it really is.”

“Good definition of euphemism, Roberta. I couldn’t have defined it better myself.” Roberta sat up a little straighter. She, like most of the students, had promise. The trick was getting them to realize their possibilities, to believe in themselves.

At the start of the school year, his students sauntered into his classroom full of attitude. Why should they care for Latin—a dead language of some white guys—when nobody seemed to care about them? For many of Ernest’s students, the adults in their lives were missing, too busy surviving to raise their children, and so they were left to raise themselves.

To be a decent teacher, Ernest had to be both gardener and fisherman. These students needed attention, a little pruning, a sprinkling of kind words, and a heap of compost-rich Latin to thrive. Standing on the shore of their youth, he cast out lines of Latin. If they nibbled, it was a good day. And most days were. His students were hungry to learn. Hungry to be loved.

“I know it’s Friday, but I have a mission for you to accomplish this weekend.” The class offered up an expectant groan. Ernest walked up to the blackboard and wrote the chalky, white words: Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur. “These words were written by our old friend Publilius Syrus. It translates to: ‘We choose to love, we do not choose to cease loving.’ I want you to write this phrase down. Think about it. What does this mean? We’ll pick up the discussion on Monday.”

The bell rang, sounding the end of class. None of the students were in a hurry to leave.

Ernest missed his students. Retired for well over a decade, he still hears from former students, mostly in the form of postcards and letters, most of them written in Latin. Three of his students, including Roberta, went on to become Latin teachers.

He had told his students that the ultimate goal in life is to think. He has come to regret this in his old age. Ernest now believes that the ultimate goal in life is to love.

He studies the obituaries. Which person does he want to know? Who would be the easiest to love?

If a picture accompanies the obituary, he will look at it, but he will not fold what his eyes see into his decision to ask for their hand in marriage.

He will not factor in such things as age, race, gender, or beauty. Insignificant distractions. The survived by, and the preceded in death by are mere niceties, bookends to prop up a life lived well or not. He sweeps these aside. It is the words that draw him in, words hovering between the bookends of a life that loved ones have pulled together to sum up a life now lost to them.

Loved ones, Ernest has discovered, too often mistake facts for a life. Daunted by the task of putting a life into words, facts are simply strung together.

Fact. She was a member of Freeland Church of Christ.

Fact. They were employed as a teller at the credit union for 20 years.

Fact. She is survived by her children.

Fact. He was preceded in death by three brothers.

He lingers over the words and rests in the spaces between them. He lifts facts brick by brick until he uncovers the person the survived bys have missed. He discovers the person who lived between and behind the facts.

Take the case of the teller. As a child, they didn’t feel they belonged anywhere and came to the conclusion that their sense of “otherness” was because the blood that coursed through their seven-year-old body literally came from some other world. Growing into adulthood, they tucked this belief safely away. When Ernest courted the teller, he knew the workings of their heart, and did not mind it when he would catch the teller stealing glances at the night stars.

Ernest looked past wealth and fame. He had married a socialite once but that was despite her wealthy, influential social standing. Shortly after that, he found himself married to Ethel Marie Standish. While her name never graced the society pages, she was the most genuine, loyal person he had ever met. Preceded in death by nobody, and survived by everyone, Ethel Marie liked to hug and laugh. She bagged groceries at her local supermarket. She was also born with Down syndrome.

His marriage to Ethel Marie was bliss. Each evening, upon his return home from work, she would greet him at the door with a lopsided smile and a white apron dotted with red cherries tied around her wide waist. They would eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she had made. Ernest would taste the sticky, gooeyness of her thick love slathered between white layers of wonder. After dinner, they would play dominos at the kitchen table. Later, they would fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Sometimes, the manner of death would be the door through which Ernest would enter to know his love. A few years back, he had married twenty-five-year-old Sandra Messing, a teacher’s aide who had “died tragically when she fell down a flight of stairs that led up to the apartment she’d shared for three years with her loving husband, Marvin, a self-employed magician.”

Sandra was studying to be a teacher when she met Marvin. He waved his wand and Sandra dropped her friends and dropped out of college to be an assistant to his magic act. They married and she instantly regretted her actions. Marvin was an alcoholic and as the span between magic gigs grew, so did Marvin’s destructive tendencies.

Marvin was big and powerful when he performed magic. He knew what his audience did not, and this awareness lifted him high above their heads until they were insignificant specks. Yet, while he had them eating out of the palm of his hand, he was simultaneously dependent upon them to feed and sustain his sense of importance. With the magic gigs drying up, he was a balloon, deflated, drifting back down to earth. He wanted to feel big again. The only way he knew to accomplish this feat was to deceive, to create the illusion of an imbalance of power. He depended upon Sandra more than ever; he needed her to believe she was not good enough so he could hold her in the palm of his hand ...

Sandra walked slowly up the flight of stairs, carrying a bag of groceries. Even before she pushed the door open, Sandra could see a beer can sweating on the coffee table next to a pile of spent cigarettes, could see Marvin sprawled on the couch, a glowing cigarette butt wedged between his reedy lips. Marvin would see her and immediately barrage her with insults and foul language. This was her life and she was tired of living it. She did not have the energy to walk back down the stairs and start over. She gathered the last bit of strength she had and channeled it to the balls of her feet. This allowed her heels to inch backwards. Her toes followed suit, and—poof—she was gone. Marvin, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, did not witness her disappearance act.

The paper didn’t say these things, Ernest intuited them. It was his gift. After years of practice, he had honed his skill for harvesting the secrets of the dead. He gained intimate access by entering into the spaces between words and what wasn’t said. Uncovering their failings and fears only deepened his love for them. And that is why the dead loved him back. He resided inside them and they drew comfort in his knowing presence.

Tonight he has his pick of three.

Valerie Fulchom. The obituary summed up her life in five words: She enjoyed decorating her house. Five words. The culmination of a life. Not decorating others, just hers. Ernest hopes that, for her sake, it was an extremely large house. But he quickly discerns otherwise.

It was a modest, one bedroom, one bath home that she shared with her husband, a man wired to notice the meat and potatoes on his plate but not the little touches a wife makes to turn a house into a home. She would point them out to him—the ceramic rooster perched upon the refrigerator, his aunt’s doily gracing the back of the sofa, the plastic flowers artfully arranged in the vase on the kitchen table—and if she was lucky, he would grunt. She would take the grunting as approval. Valerie, Ernest thought, was a possibility.

The next one, Marcelle Martin, lived a life pared down to four words: They enjoyed watching television. Four words of a life un-explored, of gifts untapped. A life, Ernest was sorry to say, not deserving of even a second read. Ernest would occasionally come across this type of obituary. Perhaps it was reflective of a life poorly led, or perhaps the individual had outlived everyone who knew or cared about them so details were scarce. Even Ernest, quite skillful at intuiting, had his limits. And this Marcelle Martin was one of them. He moves on to the last obituary.

Sidonia Ferris. Her family dared to use these six words: She enjoyed photographing other people’s cows.

Ernest’s fingers tingle. She enjoyed photographing other people’s cows. His heart surges. His body begins to sweat. Sidonia. This is the one. Photographing other people’s cows would take some doing. Sidonia. A woman with passion barely contained. Sidonia, his wife.

He asks her why she won’t photograph her own cow, the cow that he bought for her as a wedding gift. He is worried that perhaps this is a sign that she does not love him. She offers him a quiet smile. Ernest smiles back. In the pasture of their speechless love, he grazes upon the mystery of her.

Sidonia at midnight. Walking through a cornfield alley. A camera, attached to a leather strap around her neck, swings gently against the front of her mustard-colored field jacket. Jeaned thighs slip over a wooden fence and in dung-clad boots, she stands before other people’s cows. She encounters a big brown eye staring warmly at her from under a veil of lashes. She discovers breath rising like a prayer, offered up to the night by two large and humble nostrils.

Sidonia lifts the camera to her eye.

He waits for her return, wandering about the farmhouse they share—thin walls blanketed with close-up shots of hundreds of brown eyes watching, cow ears of many colors listening in all directions, udders swollen with warm milk, bursting to be touched.

Enveloped by such raw beauty, he weeps.

Ernest is still weeping when she returns. Eyes shiny with moonlight—she presses a cold cheek against his whiskery face—he forgets to breathe. His love for Sidonia is almost unbearable. Thirsty, his lips slide over her middle finger and he suckles, feels her shudder against his body.

Ernest and Sidonia will give every last drop of themselves to each other.

Theirs is a steamy, milky love. He has waited an entire lifetime for her. He holds her in his lap. His fingertips caress her inky face. He does not want to let her go.

Notes:

• Love in the Obituaries was first published in Structo, a literary magazine published in the UK.

• One of my favorite podcasts is This is Love. Episode #129, which aired on January 7, 2026, is all about obituary writing. If you’re interested, here’s a link to this 30 minute episode, “The Obituary Section.”

• I follow (and adore) @tipsfromdeadpeople on Instagram. As Mary McGreevy says of her Instagram account, she’s “unearthing the hidden life advice in all of my favorite obituaries.”

• I mentioned I See You Called in Dead by John Kenney in this earlier post, Five Books I Can’t Get Out of My Brain. The main character is an obituary writer.

• I’ve written and/or contributed to the writing of four obituaries over the past 13 months. As much as I enjoy obituaries, that’s four more than I wish were not necessary to write.

• Cover photo by Melpo Tsiliaki on Unsplash.

Leave a comment