I took a class on Whitman, Dickinson, Keats and Longfellow in college. It was team-taught by two department stars, Dr. Kiefer and Rodney Jones, one a natty dresser with a gorgeous head of curly hair, the other an acclaimed poet, a stereotypical professor in appearance, wry sense of humor and laconic delivery. While I vividly... Continue Reading →
I admire my husband's drive. I love how he can go in one direction persistently, and not be pulled off to the things that trace across his intellectual field of vision.
Growing up in suburban Chicago, I didn't listen to country music. It was either my father's symphonic music on WFMT, or my mother's bobby-soxer/50s crooners, or local pop radio on the radio in my room. Occasionally, we'd click past HeeHaw on TV, but we never stayed to watch. I learned early that that wasn't *our*... Continue Reading →
It will come as a surprise only to people who don't know him, but my husband Tim was hired shortly after putting out his resume. He found an employer that matches his conscientious work ethic, substantially increased Tim's annual salary, and is near enough to our home for Tim to ride his bike. Plus, Tim... Continue Reading →
This is a story I'm not supposed to write until it's happy.
Meg Currell 