An essay about the winter I was twenty years old, living in the city, and without much hope that my life would amount to anything.

My maternal grandfather was named Edwin Harwood Heminway, Jr. and he was born in 1923. This is the story of his barn.

The great tragedy of being a dog-lover is knowing we will outlive our companions—but since I have been old enough to know better, I have buried my dogs myself.

In one way or another, art has been ever-present in my life—even before I drew my first sweet breath.

For the past decade, every August I have made a trek to Baxter State Park for a few days of fishing and hiking. The trip always re-fills me and ripples through my thoughts for many weeks.

The summer jobs of my youth have stayed with me over the years—sometimes in unexpected ways.

© tammy ackerman