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Einstein Didn’t Dream of My Mother
My mother is 82 years old and on alert for drafts, missing socks and the names of relatives who died before my birth. I listen to her carefully, however, as we have not lost one sock in the three months she has lived with me. She moved in with me in September, her pride and sense of humor intact despite the disabilities brought on by a series of strokes.Issue 09
Two on Two
"Once upon a time, a long time ago, I rambled through thickets of brawny power forwards and quicksilver cocksure guards and rooted ancient centers..."Issue 09 / True Stories, Well Told
FROM THE EDITOR: The “Truth and Consequences” of Creative Nonfiction
A few years ago, we received an essay by a talented young writer about her affair with a high school classmate. When I contacted her about publishing the essay in Creative Nonfiction, I learned that she had been out of contact with the woman about whom she had written for many years, but that through mutual friends she had learned that the woman was now married, the mother of two young children.Issue 09
What Is It We Really Harvestin’ Here?
We got a sayin’, “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,” which is usually meant as a compliment. To my mind, it also refers to the delectable treats we as a people harvested for our owners and for our own selves all these many years, slave or free.Issue 24/25 / Issue 09 / In Fact
Mr. Personalities: A Conversation with Mark Singer
The new, freshly painted offices of The New Yorker magazine are at 20 W. 43rd St., but despite the shimmering white walls, the recessed lighting and the potted plants, there are still the expected clutter and the labyrinthine corridors, as if they were an old dream that can’t be shaken.Issue 09
Sa’m Pèdi
A novelist visits Haiti to research its history and finds a country suspended between past and present uprisingsIssue 09 / Issue 24/25 / In Fact
Sea Changes: Traveling the Staten Island Ferry
We’re all drawn by nature to the source. Rock me on the water, sings one of our voices, got to get back to the sea somehow. No cause for surprise, then, in the discovery by a photographer and a writer that they had in common not only residence in New York City but the sharing of a particular Atlantic voyage.Issue 09
Musselshell
I learned early to wear only wool and cotton, because wool keeps you warm even when it’s wet, and cotton won’t melt to your skin when it burns. I learned this from Bill Heckman, my boss on the brush crew when I started for the Forest Service in 1979, who hated polyester almost as much as he hated hippies.Issue 09
You Want Me to Shoot You?
In my last visit to South Dakota, I found Father Dillon to be pretty much the same man I had always known. He was his usual quiet and unexcitable self, given to understatement but slower now in what he did.Issue 09
Scattering Point
In my parents’ living room is a fat paperback book with a white cover and a lot of fold-out maps in it—the “Soil Survey of Livingston County, Illinois,” issued by the U. S. Department of Agriculture in April 1996.Issue 09