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Client: Hope Magazine, Spring 2002

Embracing this Imperfect Life

On a Sunday morning in late August, sunlight slants through the tall paned windows of the Quaker Meeting House in North Sandwich, New Hampshire. Phil Simmons sits, unmoving in his wheelchair.

Client: Attaché, Dec. 2001

Feel Good Fish

Attention, shrimp enthusiasts. Here’s something that may make you think twice before eating those curls of succulent seafood. . .

Client: Attaché, May 2001

Defending Your Turf

It was during the early months of our marriage that the shocking truth became clear: My new husband zig-zagged. With the lawn mower, that is. Just weeks after our spring wedding, he dutifully set out to mow the lawn . . .

Client: UNH Magazine, Winter 2000

Science on Ice

The screaming roar of the engine on a Hercules C-130 military cargo plane blows the sound of your voice into oblivion, shoves your breath back down your throat, leaves you gasping, eyes watering against swirling snow. And then it is silent.

Client: Attaché, September 2000

Inside Coastal Maine: A Rugged Splendor

There are days along the coast of Maine – when the light is slanting just so, when breezes bend the saltmarsh grasses, and pointed firs cut sharp shadows into a sunlit sky – that you could swear you were standing inside an Andrew Wyeth painting. And then there are days when the sea boils and slams against the shore, . . .

Client: Attaché, June 1999

Home Grown

Tomatoes taste best on a late afternoon in August, warm soil underfoot, dragonflies weaving spirals above the garden. The little cherries are my favorite, plucked warm from the vine and savored. But tomato season here in the Northeast is fleeting. Painfully short. The tasteless, waxy look-alikes heaped on grocery shelves during most of the year qualify merely as distant relations. . .

Client: Smithsonian, August 1997

Treehouses Take a Bough

I remember looking up. It is summer, and my father is kneeling on a platform pounding nails, each hammer blow echoing in the silent woods. Overhead, branches and twigs, needles and leaves weave a tangled tapestry. When it is finished, our tree house is perfect. . . .

Client: Yankee Magazine, August 1993

Hog Island

Ten days is not so long, really. In a lifetime, that is. But when you’re a kid and it’s summer and you’re on a small island in Maine, time stretches on and on, spinning out like an endless reel of fishing line cast in a perfect arc.