Essays by Karen Anderson

A friend next door retired recently so, I told everyone, “Bring a dish to pass and some advice for Bill.”

“There oughta be a law,” I say, “businesses that go out of business ought to take their signs down.”

Each of us has some kind of specialized knowledge, which can become a lens through which we view the world. So, I’m wondering, Dear Listener, what do YOU notice?

I’m ready to trade mountains for lakes. Ready to return to the limited visibility of the place I call home.

On a morning in late spring, my husband and I are canoeing a section of the Manistee River. Close to shore a merganser duck is swimming with ten ducklings in a row behind her. Ten.

The long tables are set with white cloths and purple ribbons down the middle. Bouquets of daffodils alternate with baskets of hot cross buns.

And the best thing about these plants is their mysterious habit of closing up their leaves each night, like hands praying. The Shamrock also comes in a deep purple color which is my favorite.

You couldn’t tell that we are afraid, but no matter how ordinary, no matter how routine, we know that any medical procedure can change a life... Maybe my life.

My mother’s refrigerator was jam-packed—with jam and every other foodstuff that could be crammed onto its shelves. “Please find me some black olives,” she’d say, and I would dive into the chaos.