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First, There is Racism

When my husband and I built our house at Pickwick Lake, we built it into the high bluffs that circle the lake. In order for this to work, the architect had to take steel beams and drive them through the shifting mud until he hit bedrock. The house was thus anchored and then built around these beams. I keep thinking of this image as I ponder the...

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Just Rain

When we were interring Daddy in the Old Chapel Hill Cemetery (x marks the spot, a shovel, and an urn), rain fell. We held umbrellas, but we were moving, digging and tossing dirt. The August rain dripped slow and steady—not warm, not cool, just rain—and even as it was happening, I knew I’d never act afraid of the rain again. No running to...

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The Moment

The shade on our living room window diffuses the light. When the sun’s going down, the room glows golden. A blue turquoise Christmas tree from Target sits on the window sill—the apartment is decorated in white and black and turquoise. I left the tree up after Christmas as a spot of color. Backlit by the sun, framed by the skyline of New...

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Here’s the Kicker

A daughter orphaned from her dad at age three, I wrapped myself in all things Daddy Joe. Because he moved to the Rockies, I loved the snow, demanded a Frosty the Snowman cake every December birthday, cherished my red sled—in Mississippi, where it snowed once every seven years. I folded and unfolded the postcard he sent me of a Palomino until...

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The Roller Coaster of Writing

When you’re waiting at the gate and it swings open and you rush forward, your sneakers squinching on the spilled strawberry shakes, and, frantic, you skim through your choices—this car, no this car—only to be forced by the crowd into a red-cushioned car where the attendant slams the bar in place and you test it as well—never trust anybody,...

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Creating Yourself

I’m carrying my Ryan Prewitt pocketbook today. Several years ago, I made the tote for Ryan and Cammie’s wedding brunch. Of all things, I noticed my wedding day pocketbook was made by a designer whose first name was Inge. That’s Cammie’s dad’s name. When I mentioned this to Cammie, she said yes, and not only that, a Cammie Hill also designs pocketbooks....

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