You Can’t Keep The House Your Daughter Was Born In
Remember that night, as my midwife Ghuru B, a tiny woman from Chicago, smiled at me? I was on all fours on the bed and mooing like a cow in distress. I knocked my tea mug over, the stain spreading down the wall, while my husband pressed the spot on my back to suppress the pain. And finally after twelve hours of labor, she was born.
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An ancient pecan tree was witness to the Jacksons’ violent deaths and, 140 years later, the tree provided shade for the people gathered together to remembering the Jacksons’ fates.Read More »
“Time to go, girls!” says Maria, the supervisory auditor, pushing back her chair, sticking out a leg, and checking her hose for runs. “This is important government business!”Read More »
Behind our ranch house and across a dry creek bed was a long rectangular pasture. There was something strange in that place—it could be felt.
“You’re Luddites!” my friend from the city accused. “For farming with horses in this day and age!”
A rooster crowed; the goats grazed on the meadow. My husband and I had been too absorbed in the work of a small farm to have studied this movement. “What exactly is a Luddite?” I asked.Read More »
Tellin’ Stories 