The Year I Turned into My Father

             “We are linked by blood, and blood is memory without language.”                                                        —Joyce Carol Oates Dear 2011, Well you were quite the year, weren’t you? Tossing out mixed messages like a…a…..thing that tosses out mixed messages. Oh, I know! Like a brain clogged with beta-amyloid plaque that randomly traps information from going in and…

Christmas Bells and Beaus

Dear Holiday Spirit, This is my favorite holiday season memory of my father: He’s leaning way back in his big leather chair. His huge feet are in black socks on the ottoman. His drink—–Eggnog from the drive-thru farm store—– is next to him on a side table he’s procured in the Philippines or India. He…