Brick by Brick

In October, I kneeled in the garden and pulled weeds with my mom. She told me that when she met my dad, she had assumed that he knew what he was doing when it came to building the house and the kiln. “I knew nothing, and I thought knowing nothing was a hindrance,” she explained. “I didn’t know that knowing nothing was how you became somebody who knew something and just moved forward.”

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The River Guides

Memory is water, the blue-green rivers of the Ozark mountains that run through our childhood. Memory is the tangled green slime of the slough we waded through in search of snakes and snapping turtles. It is river-worn rocks under our feet, the Arkansas summer sun at our backs, the elation of running down the dirt…

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