Articles

Janet Izora was born in Paw Paw, West Virginia, in May of 1937, the younger daughter of Claude and Stella Jamison. During the autumn of her ninth year, she tagged along with her father for a day of hog butchering at the Kline place up on the hill. There she met Don.

For as long as they have been old enough to speak, each night as we tuck our kids into bed they have asked my husband, Dan, and me, “Can you tell us a story?” And they really do mean tell them a story, not read them one. They want a new one, one that’s all their own, one that was made just for them.

For two years my home was on ten secluded acres in the mountains of Arkansas. My family’s time there was brim full of adventures…

There’s a path outside my window, all covered with fallen leaves. And I’ve never had the courage to discover where it leads…

Last fall my husband surprised me with a gift of tulip and daffodil bulbs. 745 bulbs to be exact. Apparently, the greenhouse at the college where he teaches had been unable to sell this part of their stock and was tossing them…

The wind howled, and the sky scowled, and everything was night…

My youngest turns four years old next week, and it hurts to even write that. Last month, my six-year old lost a tooth – one of the big ones right in front. She cried and I cried…

There is a dirt road on the western border of Missouri and Arkansas that winds for miles over an Ozark ridge until it eventually comes to nothing in an overgrown pasture beyond a tree painted purple. The mail lady calls the road, “The End of the World,” and the epithet is spot on….

Winter skies are heavy and seem to press down a dreary pessimism that is difficult to lift. The skies are gray, the birds are gray, and the ground is muddy...