Family
Letting the Oil Run Off
When we sold the food business my parents started in the early 1980s a few years ago, I was deeply concerned it would kill my father.
That’s because it was the truest expression of his undivided self.
Health
Suffering as Grace
Something I’m really grateful for, which having this eye condition taught me, is that when your body sends a distress signal, you need to stop and slow down against all conditioning.
Family
I was such an asshole
Sometimes I randomly apologize to my mother for being a little shit and it makes her emotional, which confirms that I have indeed been, or still am, a little shit.
Memoir
The Backyard at Longview
In my silent picture memories out back in the old house at Longview, a few places stand out. The window above the sink overlooking the backyard. A walnut tree. An ornate altar to the Virgin Mary.
Memoir
Watermelon Girls
Justin Timberlake's recent run-ins with the law reminded of the watermelon girls who shared a table with me in art class. We had nothing in common, but a semester is long enough to forge lasting memories.
Family
Ode to a Creep
I credit my sister for all of our major family trips. While my parents and I are very dynamic people, we’re also a bunch of stick-in-the-mud homebodies. A recent excursion reminded me of a funny time we had together.
Memoir
A Useful Childhood
I’ve always seen going to school as a choice, even though it was compulsory and truancy was enforceable by law. Maybe that's because I had somewhere else to go that was steeped in usefulness.
Memoir
On Being a Tiny Pilgrim
I knew about Jesus because of a few beautiful objects in my childhood home. I knew about the Mother because of a grotto a previous homeowner consecrated in my childhood backyard, which was a frequent perch for me.
Family
Daddy Stories
My life is full of my father’s stories. He is a delightful man, and rampant conversation dominator. He has travelled the world, seen life, built an empire, and he has a right to talk.
Memoir
Picnic Sandwiches
One day a white Ford Econoline van appeared, so old that its paint was matted, its enamel sheared away by time and smogwinds. It's name was Picnic Sandwiches, and it was my father's mighty chariot.
Memoir
My Madam Bovary Story
My immigrant parents were very tight with money and very deliberate in shaping our attitudes about it. Buying books was a complicated affair.
