I can still remember when I was first introduced to the magical world of J.R.R. Tolkien. I was in the seventh grade at the time.

Growing up in Iowa, winter storms were an accepted part of life. Not something we particularly enjoyed—just something we took in stride.

When we were kids, the first storm or two of the season was always fun. This was our chance to build a snowman, construct elaborate snow forts, and engage in pitched snowball fights. On occasion, even Mom would don a snowsuit and make snow angels in the front yard with my sister and me.

I have a confession to make.

Are you sitting down? Good. Here it is:

I do not have a tattoo.

Mildred was a thrifty soul, much like my own grandmother—the kind who viewed waste as a personal affront. Somewhere along the line—perhaps from a neighbor's successful hunt—she had acquired a portion of deer meat.

A word of warning: When you eat a glob of this smeared on the end of a carrot stick you will… feel things. Ham salad is not just the aioli of my people—and it is not for the faint of heart. It is the gateway drug to a Midwestern underworld of hot dish and Jell-O salads.

It was 1977. Jimmy Carter was in his first year as President of the United States, and the Pale Moon supper club—on the west outskirts of Centerville, Iowa—was the pinnacle of fine dining in Appanoose County.

Written in 2018 and previously unpublished, this was the essay where the writing bug first bit me.

On our 2018 trip to Australia, we took a ferry to Green Island to see a bit of the Great Barrier Reef. Unfortunately, it was pretty much a complete bust as the weather turned awful soon after we departed Cairns.

Back in my ETSU days, I was still riding that odd little wave of being young enough to pass for a med student but credentialed enough to sign my own prescriptions. I had a full panel of patients in an office teeming with young, eager residents and old, peeling laminate, and a growing reputation as the doctor most likely to make his patients laugh, blush, or both.

One gray, rainy Friday in November, in the middle of cleaning out my upstairs hall closet, I had a small epiphany as I tossed out a handful of red Christmas candles—now faded to a mottled, oily pink.

“I am powerless over scented wax, and my shelves have become unmanageable.”

We arrived on a warm mid-October afternoon in Dubrovnik, the “Pearl of the Adriatic.” As we stepped off the bus at Ploče Gate, the scent of pines and salt air wafted over us with the warm breeze. My mind was suddenly filled with images—memories of somewhere I’d never been before.

When I was a boy, the city pool was where we played Marco Polo—the only game where you could win by listening instead of seeing. One kid, eyes shut tight, would call “Marco,” and the rest of us, scattered and laughing, would answer “Polo,” voices bouncing off water and sky. You learned to tell who was who by sound alone—the pitch of a giggle, the splash that gave away your cousin’s location.

My first encounter with a bidet was in 1985. I was a teenager at the time and my mother and I were on a two-week trip to Spain sponsored by my high school Spanish club. We had just checked into our hotel room in Madrid after a long overnight flight from Chicago.

It all began with our annual plumbing inspection. We probably spend more for it than we should, but the plumbers at the company we use are always courteous, punctual, and get the work done correctly the first time.

THE SECOND THURSDAY CIRCLE OF GRACE

Cooking with Grace:

Recipes for the Spiritually Overdone

Vol. 1, Issue 7 • Mimeographed with Love

and Cooking Sherry

If Janice Higdon asks me to “return thanks” at these monthly luncheons one more time, I swear I’m going to start attending the Unitarian Universalist church over on West Maple. When you’ve spent a lifetime watching people spoon Miracle Whip onto pineapple rings while repressing generational trauma, at some point you decide enough is enough.

The first time I recall someone saying that to me, it wasn’t an accusation so much as a diagnosis.