Essays by Karen Anderson

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.

For the first hour, paddling seems effortless and I watch the scenery going by .... By hour two, my back is aching but when I cross my legs, the ache is gone.

The advice you get when you take a boat out on a like turns out to be pretty good life advice, too.

Practicing piano for popularity, with a healthy dose of youthful skepticism.

I understand the wish for privacy and I share it. But it’s a fine line—a property line—and we also have a responsibility to the people on the other side.

A reflection on poems, and whose are studied and remembered.