It starts with the documentary about the Roosevelts that Ken Burns did for PBS—this overwhelming nostalgia that comes over me. I streamed the program on Netflix last week, and once it hit 1910, the year of my mother’s birth, I began to use the timeline to mark the progression of my parents’ lives. The Great…

I just got back from Louisville, KY, where I was part of a reading on Friday evening, and where I taught a class on constructing narratives at the Writer’s Block Festival on Saturday. The reading was held at the Bard’s Town, a restaurant and pub, and, yes, you guessed it, a Shakespearean theme. What writer…

When I was a small boy on our farm, I often felt lonely. I was an only child who had to get comfortable with being alone. Now I see what a blessing it was, a blessing of silence and solitude. I liked to read, and I liked to watch television, and I liked to play…

In my post last week, I suggested that, when we write about ourselves at an earlier age, we’re wise to do so from a position in the here-and-now that allows us to look at those idiots we surely were with humor while at the same time respecting that idiocy. A few people objected to the…

When I heard that Cory Wells, a member of the rock band, Three Dog Night, had died, I found myself watching YouTube videos of their performances. The song that struck me most was “Eli’s Coming.” It’s a song that Laura Nyro wrote and Three Dog Night later covered. It was popular during my early high…

Usually when I write an essay—particularly if it’s a segmented, braided, or lyric piece—I have no idea where it’s going. My first draft consists of gathering pieces—bits of narrative, details, images, associations. I might have a central narrative that I sense is the container for what I’ve come to the page to say, but I…

Recently, I drove by a field and saw a rusted corn picker nearly hidden by weeds. I thought of a similar corn picker that throughout my childhood sat at the edge of the woods on our farm, never used, going to rust. It occurs to me now that this must have been the corn picker…

I was scrolling through Facebook one day when I came upon some photos my former neighbor had posted—photos of classic cars that he’d owned in the small town where we both lived when we were teenagers and then young men. In one of the photos, my parents’ house is clearly visible, my father’s 1967 Oldsmobile…

It’s harvest time here in the Midwest. Farmers are busy cutting beans and corn. The days are getting shorter. Leaves are starting to have some color. The nights are loud with the sounds of insects busy getting ready for the winter. This is a time for gathering.I know we’re tempted to think of autumn as…

When The American Scholar invited the essayist, Brian Doyle, to write something in response to the horrific events of 9/11, Doyle’s replied, “No, there is nothing to write. The only thing to say is nothing. Bow your head in prayer and pray whatever prayers you pray. There is nothing to say.” But, as Jennifer Sinor…