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Letters from my dad

My dad used to make homemade noodles. He was from southern Illinois, from a long line of noodle-makers. The express purpose of making noodles was to serve them with a chicken, and not any kind of chicken. It had to be a stewing chicken—not roasting, not frying. He sent me his chicken-noodle instructions, and that’s what I was looking for when I came across some letters he wrote to me in 1983, the year I lived in Hawaii. Read More 
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Getting a little squirrelly

Ghosts of chipmunks past: Grandpa Swanson with a chipmunk on his head. You can see my reflection as I took the photo of the photo, and floating above my head, the reflection of Uncle Pete, who took the original.
We just brought Churchy inside for the second night in a row, which means there’s no more denying it: summer is over. This evening I found him under the chives, barely able to squeeze his turtle body into his shell, full from a season of sun-gold tomatoes, blueberries, worms, and the occasional raw mini-meatball set aside from our hamburger dinner.  Read More 
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