Every autumn, as the year begins to show its age and the calendar thins to a handful of pages, the new farmer’s almanacs arrive at hardware shops and drugstores, pointing us, as always, toward another year not yet born.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Until Alison Ligon shared her video of a caterpillar eating, it hadn’t occurred to me that you could actually hear a caterpillar enjoying his dinner.
Tuesday, September 06, 2016
After I shared a few words here last week about spotting a monarch butterfly in my yard after the great flood, Alison Ligon wondered if the butterfly I saw was one of her own.
Saturday, September 03, 2016
A couple of Fridays after the Great Flood of 2016, as I was in the yard with our plumber discussing a repair, a monarch butterfly landed on the shrubbery near the porch. It was a lovely thing, black, gold and pumpkin orange, its wings shimmering l…
Saturday, August 27, 2016
As a scholar who had studied the 19th century remarked some years ago, when people asked you how you were doing back then, they really wanted to know how you were doing. At a time when death and loss were all too common, a friend or neighbor’s wel…
Saturday, August 20, 2016
More than three decades ago, as a cub writer for a small-town weekly, I was assigned to cover the local drainage board, a penance almost too hard to bear. Like most young reporters, I had entered journalism with dreams of doing the big stuff — nuc…
Saturday, August 13, 2016
When my wife asked me to stow our suitcases on the high shelf of the closet last week, I knew we’d be around for a while. Although our children are no longer small, we still answer to the calendar of the school year, so when campus life resumes ea…
Saturday, August 06, 2016
How bittersweet to return to this keyboard after a few days at the beach. When we packed for the drive home, there still seemed a lot of loafing left to do, more hours when we gladly would have done not much at all.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Among the unlikely bestsellers this summer is “Seven Brief Lessons in Physics,” Italian physicist Carol Rovelli’s slender introduction to a branch of science that often leaves most of us furrowing our brows in befuddlement.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
In the 1970s, novelist Anne Rivers Siddons published a collection of essays called “John Chancellor Makes Me Cry,” a title that compels me to offer a quick disclaimer to my younger readers.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
In the author photo for “This Old Man,” his recent collection of New Yorker pieces, Roger Angell shares the frame with a terrier who steals the show. Angell is 95 years old and going strong. His book assembles a lot of his stuff from several decad…
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Visit a hotel these days, and you’re quickly reminded that vacation season is in full swing across America. Guests pad down the halls in swimsuits and flip-flops, beach towels in the crooks of their arms. They’ll return from the hotel pool in an h…
Saturday, July 02, 2016
While waiting in the grocery line the other day, I picked up a copy of Southern Living from the magazine rack, flipped to the back page and began reading Rick Bragg’s essay in honor of Pat Conroy, the South Carolina novelist who died recently at age 70.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
In a summer frayed by toxic campaigns, a mass shooting and political stalemate, our family packed the car with an ice chest and lawn chairs, fried chicken and potato salad, then hit the road to reconnect with the ties that bind.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
For a Father’s Day story, we asked readers to share the best advice their fathers ever gave them, a request that yielded lots of meaningful responses. But what looms largest in my memory of my own father, gone these many years, is what he didn’t s…
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Welcome once again to Mr. Danny’s Camp for Bored Youngsters. You’ve been sent here because summer is still new, but you’ve already complained to your parents that there’s nothing to do.
Saturday, June 04, 2016
If you’ve tuned into this column the past couple of weeks, then maybe you’ve noticed a theme. It’s a topic as old as time — namely, how quickly time itself passes, even when we’ve tricked ourselves into thinking otherwise.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Nearly two decades ago, one winter of my daughter’s toddler years, we decided she should have a sitting place of her own — a tiny table and chairs where she might go to draw, color or have her breakfast while she watched cartoons. There was just s…
Saturday, April 30, 2016
In the days when phone books were still widely used, I greeted the arrival of each new one by first looking up my own name and number, then the listings of friends and relatives. It was an odd ritual — perhaps a small way to reassure myself, throu…
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Monday, April 11, 2016
After 20 years in our family, my daughter has more or less resigned herself to the idea that her father is an oddball. Even so, she was surprised to come home from college for Easter and find a poinsettia on the dining room table as our holiday ce…
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
On the third day of the great rain, when the sky had cleared just enough to lure me toward the newspaper at the end of the drive, I sensed a long, dark shadow as I walked to collect the morning headlines.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
In the years of our working together, my friend David and I shared an office that overlooked the Mississippi River. Only after a long while did I discover that he kept a notebook in which he would record the names of passing tugboats.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Last week’s Best Picture Oscar is the latest praise for “Spotlight,” a movie that dramatizes The Boston Globe’s investigation of clerical abuse in the Catholic Church.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Earlier this month, when the winners of a $1.58 billion lottery jackpot were announced, I overheard an office mate speculating on what he would do if such a windfall came his way.
Monday, March 07, 2016
I won’t treat you to another commentary on the Confederate statues debate in New Orleans, a battle in the culture wars that threatens to run on longer than the Civil War itself.
One of the small complications in urging a teen to exercise is that he sometimes wants you to do the same. Or so I was reminded last weekend when my 14-year-old son, who can bask for hours in the sickly glow of video games, asked me to take him an…
We’re coming to the end of commencement season, that time of year when sage advice blooms from graduation podiums across America. Nothing I’ve heard this month, though, sounds any wiser than a speech by Willard Spiegelman to students at his home c…
Stuck in holiday traffic last month, I relied on Roger Angell to keep me calm. Angell, who’s 95, was on the radio to discuss “This Old Man,” his new collection of writings that mostly draws on pieces published during his decades at The New Yorker.
The mention of Barbara Grizzuti Harrison probably won’t ring a bell with you. But the story of her life and death has a lot to tell us about what we owe teachers, a subject that’s especially important right now as another school year draws to a close.
I began my newspaper habit as a kid, following bylines the way many boys followed box scores. In high school, when I was invited to a weekend-long student journalism conference featuring Ed Anderson, I quickly agreed.
Long after my father died, my mother remained close with his sister, Eunice, a retired librarian. The friendship between these two widows was made all the more remarkable by their contrasting personalities — a distinction bookmarked on Christmas, …
Earlier this month, in a modest White House ceremony, the president of the United States looped a lovely medal around the neck of Annie Dillard as thanks for her 40 years of writing, which often deals with the woods and waterways just beyond her d…
As the proverbial wisdom tells us, we’re often challenged by getting exactly what we ask for. I suppose I’ll get my own reminder of that abiding reality when the mockingbird outside my bedroom window gets quieter as the spring deepens.
This summer’s mass shooting in Lafayette reminded us how troubled humanity can be. But a day after the tragedy, I drove to Lake Charles to take part in a summer ritual that in recent years has renewed my faith in human possibility, even when the h…
The days run long this time of year, but the best part of them comes in the morning, before the sun grows strong enough to chase me inside. I rise early to mow the lawn, walk the dog or scrub the moss from the patio, so that its bricks brighten li…
You’ve no doubt heard it said of those who aren’t thinking well that they don’t have enough sense to get out of the rain. I thought this was just a figure of speech until I became the father of two children who, well, sometimes don’t know when to …
Last month, in catching the news roundups of important people who had died in 2015, I didn’t see any mention of William Zinsser, the celebrated teacher of writing who had passed away in May at age 92.
When they were courting in the 1920s, my maternal grandparents often passed the time by walking to the depot to see the trains arrive. It seems, by modern standards, about as interesting as watching paint dry — not the sort of itinerary, in other …
“Auld Lang Syne,” the New Year’s anthem that asks if old acquaintances should “be forgot,” catches more deeply in my throat each January, as middle age brings the news that old friendships can, indeed, too easily wither from neglect.
Now that we’ve stowed the Christmas decorations for another year, I find what color I can these days in the seed catalogs, where the pages are bright enough to lift any spirit at the bottom of January, when the lawn is brown, the wind sharp, the g…
Remember Franklin Williams? A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about Franklin, an arborist who died recently, leaving a legacy I remember each spring.
Last week, from a deep sleep, I began to hear, somewhere at the distant rim of consciousness, the sound of birdsong beckoning me awake.
If we were a normal family, I suppose we’d have a nice bowl of fruit on the coffee table. Instead, the bowl in the den is more likely to be full of old tennis balls, kept there for the odd moment when we decide to take a few into the yard and ask …
Last weekend, in the days before Harper Lee’s “Go Set a Watchman” was released to a waiting world, my wife and I took an overnight trip into Lee’s home state of Alabama, a place that’s changed a lot since Lee first wrote about it.