Author name: Debby Shehane

I belong to the church of the physically fit. Members do marathon mudders. They sprint up stairs.  They are at peace with their lean to fat ratio because they  have nothing to put in the denominator. They run. They jump. They bench press twice their weight. And they look good in spandex. In my day, spandex was tights which, unless they were anchored in place by a leotard, succumbed to gravity pretty quickly. School girls suffered until bathroom breaks allowed […]

I live in the boonies- it takes twenty minutes to get to the grocery store; water is collected in cisterns, and everyone has a gas generator.  Nothing is convenient, but everything is beautiful- the river, the hills, the wildlife.  Unfortunately, the domestic beauty requires effort. Last week, I was grubbing out weeds from flower beds with sweat  stinging my eyes, and I thought about how hard and how long Jon could work.  His stamina coupled with his desire to complete

Libby was busy, determined, and quick.  A petite whirlwind, she took care of us with high speed devotion and pretty much wore herself out doing it.  She wanted us to be good, to be accomplished, and for heaven’s sake- to look nice!   I attribute my relative indifference to fashion to Mom’s fixation with it, but that is beside the point. She sewed all of our “Sunday” clothes- matching suits for my brothers and fluffy dresses for me.  The dresses

I have really good friends- the kind who will keep my gelding for me when my fences have gaps in them; who feed him chopped up, organic carrots; who let him pick fruit off their little apple tree, and who injure themselves fixing up a shed for him.  Why any horse would want to wander away from digs like that and people like that is beyond me, but a week ago, he did it.  Frolic discovered an open gate, hauled

When William, was a toddler,  he distinguished between his two grandfathers,  calling one, “Pop”, and the other “Papa Horse”.  The first grandfather is still active in William’s life, a kind man, full of integrity, eager to share the things he knows with his grandsons.  The second, who also delighted in his rambunctious grandsons (there were no granddaughters at the time),  is fading into pleasant memory. When the little boys were able to sit up and take notice, Jon would carry

Shortly after Jon and I got married, we left Alabama, loaded our worldly goods into a mid-sized U-Haul, and started driving north, towing our little car with its “Heart of Dixie” license plates behind us.  We reached Chicago’s Eisenhower Expressway at 5:00 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and  people honked and swore as Jon manuevered the cumbersome load from lane to lane.  By the time we located our exit, sweat was pouring off his forehead, and I was a nervous

Elizabeth calls them “sadiversaries”- memorials to grief, forced remembrances of sad days. I avoid these whenever possible, running in zig-zag patterns and keeping my head low, but sometimes, they catch me anyway. I got caught when the kids suggested that we get together for dinner on January 31st. They wanted to cheer me up on the second anniversary of Jon’s death. This being the case, I thought it would be a good idea to fix my mind on a better

It’s winter, and every morning, before dawn, a dog who can’t wait one more minute to go to the bathroom, begins to bark. I get up. I put on Jon’s barn coat, cinch the hood with a hand-knitted scarf, and pull on my great galumphing boots. Then I release two of the dogs into the back yard. Dugan, who tends to run off, has to be walked on leash. So while Bonnie checks the perimeter for deer scat or foxes,