Category: Prose

We’re driving down backroads when my son says, “I don’t like Breaux Bridge. Nothing good ever seems to happen there.” I say that sometimes as I drive through these small towns, I romanticize about how nice it must be to live there, to walk to and from your grocery store, your church, your school. To…

I’ve been thinking a lot about mothers lately. Two months ago, I received an email from StoryCorps notifying me that an interview I had conducted with my mom 13 years ago was now accessible in their online archives and part of the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. I was…

I’m cleaning up an exhaust valve with a bench grinder when my mechanic tells me this: There used to be this ol’ boy who worked for me. I had him cleaning the parts. One day he said to me, “Why do I have to be the one that gets greasy all the time?” I walked…

My phone rings. I answer it. It’s my mechanic. “You know how we were talking about working on your car on Friday?” he says. “Yeah,” I say. “Well, I forgot my son was getting married on Friday.” “That’s no problem. We can do it another time then.” “No, we can still work. I just need…