VOICES FROM OVER THE HILL AND THROUGH VERMONT

Why do writers write? It’s an intriguing question with as many different responses as there are writers. Some writers seek a private revelation, a detailed examination of their experiences and internal responses. Such memoirs may be shared with the world or with a limited audience or not shared at all. Other writers may have urgent information, feeling a compulsion to make that information known. This motivation frequently takes the form of an essay. Essays aim to deliver fac

Every Week We Laugh On April 26th, 2026, my husband died, and I returned to my seat on the roller coaster of grief. From here, I can slip through the days while gazing out at the world without anyone looking in, especially during moments when tears blur my vision. I am self protective and quiet, watchful and aware. Grief carries contradictions. I hold emotional opposites: I am hungry/I don’t want anything to eat; I want companionship/I want people to stay away; I want to go f

My path into American Sign language and the world of deafness was neither direct nor typical of the time. Although my father experienced hearing loss as he aged, deafness was off my radar throughout my childhood. Signing was not an overnight passion. In fact, it took several discreet experiences before I started the journey. My very first “real” summer job was as a driver’s education aide. During the 1960’s and 70’s, Maryland public high schools provided driver’s education tr

I was married for over fifty years and I have to admit we had some rough times, especially when one of us was unfaithful, oh the tears and screams and threats and groveling, you’d think it would be impossible to ever come back from such melodrama but no, we clung to one another in spite of betrayals and misspent hours, and the thing was, my husband adored me, even when he was angry and frustrated, always thought I was the most beautiful, the sexiest, smartest, most joyful per

The minute I wake up I know it's a hungry day. A day when I am so hungry that I try to eat myself and when that doesn't help I try to eat a stranger on the street corner. Sometimes I'll just walk into people's houses and take a bite out of their ankle. It's not enough. Still hungry — in this case — for pretty things that I can take home and tuck inside my drawers and closets. Things that belong to me and no one can take away from me, ever. Luckily, I live in America, where ta

I swim out into the middle of the lake, and treading water with a slow scissors kick stop to have a look around. From here both shores are equally indistinct, smudged in the shadows of the late afternoon. I am the most myself in water, out here where I do not belong and cannot stay forever, where it is my head alone that shows above the surface as if that is all there is to me: my thoughts, my hopes and dreams, the many complicated ways in which I imagine things matter. The m