I decided early on that the world was a terrible place. Oh yes, it was beautiful, marvelous and mysterious, but it was also terrible.

Some of my Mom’s belongings migrated to the new place and as years passed, I discovered what she left behind.

I asked my mom why Butch despised me--was it just because I was gay? No, Mom said, there’s more to it than that

Anyone alive in the 70s will remember stuffed monkeys made from tube socks

It was 1963. A blizzard blew across the grass outside the married quarters where we lived in RAF St Athan.

The first among all their creatures to be acquired, and ever primus inter pares in his father’s affections, was Bird, the Burrowing Owl

Aunt Jean would read popular psychology books on the #50 trolley as it bounced down Fourth Street in fits and starts toward Passyunk Avenue.

We’d hollow out rock hard swedes with sharp knives. When we lit the stump of a candle inside them, the smell of singed swede was beguiling.

In 1975, my family emigrated from England to Australia. I escaped from a cold, dank, inner-city London to the bright sunshine of Perth.

May 3rd, 1971. We're having a party. I’m six years old, and my parents still speak to one another.

Mum’s strategy for keeping her domestic world in order involved a strict but predictable regime of household tasks that could not be altered

The overcast sky and the wishy-washy-not-really-raining July weather is still considering its next step.

It was the summer of 1938 in Lansford, Pennsylvania. The town’s only industry was a deep coal mine whose workers were primarily Polish

By the age of ten I was an accomplished teller of untruths, especially when it came to excuses for not attending school.

When I was seven, Mom and I took a drive. There was a peace to life then. Rural South Carolina was a slow place.

The heat hums. Grasshoppers click from stem to stem. In a few days, a tractor will cut and bale hay in the distance...

“I have a dream that one day … little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls

Tonight I rewatch a video my son posted some time ago, of him teaching his five year old to weave on a pretty complicated loom. The patient

My Dad gave me a photo of himself to take with me as I set off at the age of seven to my tough Rhodesian boarding school.

Mother liked to pretend that my name was a family decision. I was the third child born to Donato and Carmella Petruccelli of Davenport, Iowa