Corydon Times

Garden Road - May 24, 2016
For each beginning, there is an ending. Starting in the early 1980s, once my class got back from attending first grade in Allertonís old high school building, Corydonís year passed in the same manner as a book closing. We barely heard it shut. Mrs. Terry, for whom the nature trail by Wayneís elementary is now named, called me her clock watcher. At the end of the day, the hands moved so slowly I could not believe there could be an end to anything.
May 23, 2016, 08:58


Garden Road - May 17, 2016
At the LeCompte Memorial Library in Corydon, the seats and the table with the inclined reading surface, where I studied picture books as a child, are still right where they have always been. My mother would drive me in from the farm for summer programs. There was a dinosaur book with craft projects, and she declined my request to check it out from the library and follow its instructions: there was some reluctance, on her part, as a result of the required ingredient of rubber cement. At the time, I didnít know what that kind of glue was, but by my motherís reaction, I guessed it must have been quite a terrible substance.
May 16, 2016, 09:16


Garden Road - May 10, 2016
In Nevada, before he became famous under his pen name Mark Twain, Samuel Clemens worked at a Virginia City newspaper. This was after a failed venture as a miner. Clemens wrote an editorial piece lambasting James Laird, a writer from a rival newspaper. Laird lambasted back. Being young, hotheaded and opinionated, Clemens challenged Laird to a duel. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Not even Clemens could remember afterward.
May 9, 2016, 08:57


Garden Road - May 3, 2016
It is time once more for my obligatory birthday column. This one ends in a zero, therefore I take no pleasure in its passing. But it still happens each year on May 4. So be it.
May 2, 2016, 09:11


Garden Road - April 26, 2016
South of the Morton machine shed on the farm where I grew up, there was an old barn almost too old to stand. Its spine was bent. In April, rain turned the pasture green, the dirt black. Barn swallows made it their home. I was amazed by their agility; at dusk they could almost be confused for bats. They wove patterns through windows no longer containing glass, out the door too high for a child not to have to climb down to exitóit was meant for the height of hay wagons. There was still straw in the barn, but it must have been decades old, from a small round baler. Darkness assigned the doorway to the barn a sinister pall. I was too afraid to enter it after sundown.
Apr 26, 2016, 09:04













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