Essays by Karen Anderson

When we begin paddling, the wind is at our back and we float easily through the deepwoods. But soon the Betsie River widens out into a vast marsh where the current zigsand zags among the cattails.

When I was a kid, our family sometimes vacationed in Traverse City where we stayed in little cabins by the bay. Every night before dinner, my parents and a few friends would gather for cocktails.

“How about the roller coaster?” my father says but I shake my head. “I want to go on the carousel,” I say and Dad frowns, wishing his daughter was more adventurous. “I need to ride a brown horse because nobody picks the brown ones.”

Summer camp was not my idea; it was my mother’s. I didn’t see how a church camp could possibly be fun, especially with a name like “Pilgrim Haven,” but I agreed to go.

When my first granddaughter was born, I was so excited. “I can’t wait to meet her,” I told my counselor. “To welcome her into the world.” He nodded and said, “It’s a lifetime commitment, you know.”

In the Traverse City area, the issue of homelessness has been in the news lately. I am reminded of a book I read several years ago called “The Death of Vishnu.”

I have read that by the time people reach old age, they tell their life stories in one of two ways:

Writer Karen Anderson reflects on finding comfort

I can feel the cold coming off the river as we slide the canoe into the current. I shiver in my many layers, wishing I had more. April is my favorite…

My mother was a gourmet cook and wanted me to follow in her footsteps.One of my first steps was on a stepstool next to the stove where I had the job of…