A poem. My grandfather didn’t like to talk about the war,but if you asked, he would share this story. On a cold April morning just outside Monte Casino,he walks into a field, dry stalks breaking under his feet.His living breath makes small curling clouds of fog,lit by the morning light for the space of a…
…as you will undoubtedly be told when you have The Conversation with friends and family Anyone who has ever joined the Winona Catholic Worker as a live-in volunteer has inevitably had The Conversation with his or her family and other relatives. With surprisingly few exceptions, the announcement that one is about to join the Catholic…
It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony handsof Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.At night, he presses his face against the black windowsand claws at our…
This week, I walked into our local Kwik Trip convenience store without slipping on a mask for the first time in more than a year. It was a little anticlimactic, given how long we’ve waited for this day to come—everyone else in the store, similarly unmasked, went around buying bananas and milk and eggs and…
Here’s a short story I wrote in the spring of 2020 about the editor of a small-town newspaper whose recent cancer diagnosis causes him to re-think his definition of “news.” Someday, I hope to write a longer work about Jeremiah and the staff of The Weekly Whisperer. In the meantime, enjoy! Jerry Jeremiah Madison Peach…
You know the old saw about disaster being opportunity in disguise? When my Windhovering portfolio website went down a few months ago, it felt like a disaster…I am diligent about keeping backups, but in this case, the backup was unrecoverable. It’s a long, tedious, and uninteresting story, so I’ll spare you the details. But over…
Every spring, I have great ambitions for the eighth of an acre of sand, weeds, rabbits, and squirrels that is our backyard. So far, though, this spring has been a real bummer as far as gardening goes…a real “black thumb spring,” as I’ve come to call it. The rabbits got under my floating row covers…
A poem, with a side of basil. If it’s miracles you’re after,then in the darkest days of Decemberpurchase packets of tomato seedsand hold them close, like holy cards,and recite the litany of their namesas a stay against winter’s cruel claws:Brandywine, Oxheart, Black Krim, Rosella;Honey Gold, Pink Girl, Moon Glow, Tigerella;Chianti Rose, Sunrise, Orange Jazz, Tangella….
So, if you would be a Saint,by which I mean that S-Tstands stoutly before your name;and miracles multiplylike dandelions springingwild from your incorrupt heart;and your wise eyes stare star-likefrom icons, your head haloedon silver platters of paint;and we remember your death-day with feasts, and bells ringing;if you would be, in short, thou:— then pray, do…
Millions of Americans say they could justify violence in the wake of an electoral defeat. To stop a post-election nightmare, we need to act now. Does anyone else wake up at 3 a.m. worrying about the future of democracy in America, or is it just me? As I lay there in the dark listening to…
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