Skimming — or skipping — stones (poetically called "jumping frogs" in Africa; "waddling ducks" in Hungary or "bouncing fish" in Norway) has a long and glorious history among the under-12 set who seem to know almost by instinct the sheer joy that comes from watching a smooth stone jump across flat water until it sinks like, well, a stone.
I have been living with the pandemic for about a year, and the tempered hope of a vaccine for a few months. I’m extremely low-priority in the vaccine line, and I ought to be. I’m a 35-year-old woman, with no risk factors, who can — but doesn’t have to — work from home.
My father’s mother wasn’t what I’d call kitchen-oriented. As a young woman in Poland, she lived a busy life outside the home. We were told she’d been a spy in her youth. Or maybe a smuggler. The tales were murky.
For 22 years, I’ve been publishing books with Asian or Asian American characters. That means for 22 years I have been trying to show Asians as people. Not as caricatures, not as sidekicks, not as jokes.
Baseball legend Henry Aaron died last week at age 86. He broke Babe Ruth’s home run record in 1974, and became the target of white supremacists, threatened by his accomplishment. But long before the Milwaukee Brewers and the Atlanta Braves, Aaron played in the Negro League.
When the five deer first appeared — pausing at a neighbor’s, then coming into our yard — it was like a visitation from beyond. They seemed otherworldly with their stature and poise, warm brown against the awfully white snow.
One deep and dark Christmas Eve in the mid 1950s, the door to my bedroom opened slightly and Santa himself peeked in, said not a word, "and went straight to his work." But, unfortunately, there couldn't be any "laying a finger aside of his nose and giving a nod" before rising up the chimney.
Deep in the Grand Canyon, six days a week, the U.S. mail arrives. Letters, junk mail, milk, vegetables, and packages from Amazon — all are delivered — to Supai Village, Arizona — by mule. Now that’s service.
I was exhausted and could not figure out why. Plans for a socially distanced meet-up were canceled, blamed on the passing storms. The following day, even with the sun shining, I couldn’t manage to motivate myself.
As I watched the cart carrying the body of John Lewis across the Pettus Bridge, I was reminded that in 1965, brutally beaten, Lewis was taken to Good Samaritan Hospital, run by Sisters of St. Joseph — the only one in nine counties that received Black patients.
On Father’s Day, my family took my dad somewhere I'd never been: the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Its highlight is an outdoor landscape populated by dozens of sculpted works.
Twenty-two. That’s how old I was when Yusef Hawkins was killed by a bat-wielding, gun-toting mob of white men in New York. Eleven years later, it would be Amadou Diallo, who reached for his wallet and was met with 41 bullets.
June 1: Penguin Random House tweeted from their verified account, “We stand against racism and violence toward the black community. And we commit to listening—to our readers, to our authors, and to our teams—as we work toward becoming part of the change.”