Essays by Karen Anderson

I am standing in line at the post office, counting the people in front of me, feeling impatient and annoyed... I’m not in a hurry. I’m just feeling lonely and lost and it’s not about the post office.

I am walking in my neighborhood on a winter day and see a mother pulling a small child on a sled. As they cross the street, the sled bounces down a curb and suddenly I feel the jolt and it is my mittened hands gripping the wooden frame.

While packing for a trip I grabbed my hair dryer and hair curler, as always, and then paused... Maybe I could just leave them at home? A terrifying thought, to be sure.

Every morning when I sit down at my computer, I begin by cleaning my glasses. Grabbing the bottle of cleaner and a flannel cloth, I spray each lens and am shocked all over again at how dirty they’ve become in one day. One day!

When I left my first marriage, I moved into a small rental house with my ten-year-old daughter. The floors creaked and the windows leaked and the oven door wouldn’t close—but I loved the place.

Galileo was an astronomer who lived in the early 1600s, a time when religion not only ruled the world but defined it. Essayist Karen Anderson wonders if we have the right to feel superior to those from Galileo's time.

Glancing down, I see a bug on my sweater—but no, it’s just one of a million little balls of wool that have pilled up on this ancient garment.

When my husband suggests canoeing on a cold, cloudy morning, I agree at once.

I wear two wedding rings — a fat gold band on my left hand and a slim silver one on my right. The silver ring has a pattern of double hearts and belonged to my Great Aunt Ruth, who was my grandmother’s sister and the happiest member of our family.

When I moved to Traverse City in 1970, I had a master’s degree and years of experience, but I couldn’t find a job. Desperate to pay the rent, I followed up on a “Gal Friday” position at the local newspaper.