There’s a lot more I can say on all of these things, and more will come. But for now, a couple of briefs:

Last week, Jeff and I celebrated our first anniversary. This week, the nightmarish calving season ended with another nightmare as a cow I was given for Christmas lost her calf and twisted her hip after the difficult birth; our dog, Toby, was put to sleep Wednesday night; and my grandmother is in hospice care at home.


“Life comes in such layers of grief, joy, and mundane.”

A friend said that after hearing about all that’s been going on. I’ve had that concept on my mind this week.

And here’s more proof that it’s true:

On Monday, a few hours after the calf died, I received an email from an editor at “The Saturday Evening Post” saying he wanted to publish a story I’d submitted in February as part of the New Fiction Friday series on the Post’s website. I asked him when it might appear, and he said, “This Friday.”



Whenever I visited my grandparents after evening chores on cold, dark winter evenings, Grandmother would fill my plate with supper and hand me the latest “The Saturday Evening Post” to read, even if I’d already read it.

“You should write for them, ye ken,” she’d say.

I’d just nod and shovel stovies into my mouth.

She said this for years.

And now, my story is featured on the homepage, complete with a picture.

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