Essays by Karen Anderson

There were three spruce trees in the front and seven in the back, taller than the house — and so beautiful, invincible.

Sometimes asking for help takes the heavy out of lifting.

How can I wear this ugly old thing? It is the most disgusting sweater on the planet and I put it on every day.

The airline was putting me up at a nearby cheap motel and the shuttle driver said, “At least you’re next to the Mall of America.”

The only thing better than reading a wonderful book is re-reading it. Sure, there are plenty of good books I haven’t even read once—but a new book is a risk while an old one is a comfort.

My father wasn’t much of a cook but he always washed the dinner dishes. It was my job to dry and put them away.

Sometimes my mother would ask, in a not-happy voice, “Who was your servant last year?” I knew the answer and she knew I knew.

When I first met Betty she looked up from her book of wild flowers, gave me quick greeting and returned to her task of identifying a flower she had found in the woods.

The carefree life of a barefoot summer.