In House

"In House" is a weekly column featuring trawlings and reflections from our editors.

Photo by Vic Rawlings

January 16, 2016

Vic had been making periodic trips to learn from Lee Sexton, a vital link to the iconic sound of old-time Eastern Kentucky banjo playing, with a sound all his own.

Photo by author

January 2, 2016

She rolls through the neighborhoods and points out a jail museum that once housed the noose used to kill the last man executed in the state of Illinois.

December 19, 2015

One of our neighbors was a white man named Will. He was about 30 and lived with two women: his current wife and his ex-wife.

Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art

December 7, 2015

In period rooms... I feel the remnants of stories. I feel like I’m breathing that air. —Artist Ann Agee

Photo by Author

November 21, 2015

At the site of “The Bloodiest One Day Battle in American History,” now rolling farmland, there are various examples of cannons and monuments commemorating regiments, officers, infantry. . .

Howard Street. Photo by Marian Crotty.

November 7, 2015

Then, you notice the trees growing from within one of these buildings, reaching sideways through the windows and out toward the light. . . surviving against the odds. . .

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user KevPBur

October 3, 2015

Another exit twenty miles away with the same amenities along with roadside carnival rides, stood completely abandoned, as if at some point in 1963, everyone just walked away. . . 

September 19, 2015

Each page marks a point in time where I or someone said, you should make thisOr perhaps more precisely, here, go, make.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Leonardo Canion

September 5, 2015

On the largest waves, we lift up, airborne, hanging on tight, until the boat slaps back down. People scream; the woman beside us clutches onto the railing with both hands.

Photo by author

August 26, 2015

I have believed for a long time that I grew up in a landscape of beauty and heartache and have attached an almost embarrassing weight to my memories of bright autumn days and abandoned factories, open fields of dead crops lined with hay bales. These are the pure, imprudent emotions of young love, the rush of adolescent sentiment unimpeded by an adult’s self-restraint and judgment, but the nostalgia, I realize, has very little to do with anyone I knew or anything that happened when I lived in Pennsylvania.

Syndicate content