Essays by Karen Anderson

I have a scar on my face, under my right cheek bone. Not very large, maybe an inch long. I never notice it because I’ve never seen my face without it.

On the value of having a friend to share life's travails (and joys).

Remembering a great aunt, and the lessons learned but not appreciated until after her passing.

You can know things, and you can learn things. To essayist Karen Anderson, the latter feels more valuable.

When I was growing up, my parents attended church every week and I went to Sunday School—which was a welcoming place but I mostly worried that no one would come to pick me up.

When I was a kid, my dog got loose one day and ended up in the yard of the meanest man on the block.

On grief, and how its difficulty is a measure of love.

A walk through the neighborhood on a snowy day evokes a powerful, happy memory.

We are sitting on the couch by the light of the Christmas tree, drinking tea and eating frosted Santa Clauses.

On the value of having a default cause: something to blame, something fairly blameless, neutral, available.