When I came in from letting my dog out the other evening, a moth flew in behind us. Annoyed, I tried to gently catch it in my hand when it landed on the kitchen windowsill. As it stealthy escaped my grasp, its deep yellow, almost orange tiny eyes met mine. Continue reading
For years, three books by Helen Hoover have sat on my bookshelves next to volumes written by Sigurd Olson. The books by Olson are tattered and dog-eared. I had not even opened Hoover’s books until this summer.