Michaela, Erica and Maria tell their story

Episode 19: An Event Designer from New York, a Photographer in MN, and My Oldest Friend in Kansas — Michaela, Erica and Maria

You and Me and Everyone We Know is an audio diary made by everyday people living through the Covid-19 pandemic, and in today’s episode, we’re talking to an event designer who’s facing an uncertain future as events close down across the country. We’re also talking to a photographer who’s using this time to find peace in her work and joy in her young family. And we’ll talk to my oldest friend who’s raising her daughter in small-town Kansas. Press play below to listen to the latest episode (or find it on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Play Music, and Stitcher): (If you received this through email, tap here…

I Found an Old Photograph

This photo has been haunting me:   I’ve had it hanging on the wall with other knickknacks, bits carried back from travels, mementos from home. This one is just a neighborhood trifle. I was biking last summer through Uptown on a Saturday just like this one when I saw the ratty sign of an “Estate Sale”. I followed it. Inside a strangers house, this photo was among hundreds strewn on a bed, laying like fallen leaves over an old satin bed cover. The room had been a woman’s. Her old hair curlers sat dustless on a pristine vanity made fragile…

Strangers Holding Hands (or What to Do When Happy Hour Isn’t Enough)

If you have a friend who you know loves meeting new people, a ‘yes’ person, a friend who will disregard decorum for a good story, and if this friend is meeting you for a Thursday afternoon happy hour, then I suggest you scrap your bar chatting plans for something else entirely. My friend, Kady Hexum, is easily one of the most outgoing people on the planet. And earlier this summer I suggested that we change our happy hour plans and meet near a park. There we would introduce ourselves to strangers so that I could take pictures of her holding…

in with the old

I’m sitting in the room I grew up in. We moved here when I was six. On the end of my bed is a quilt my grandmom made for me with the state of Texas sewn over large squares of white. Sunlight comes in through a window, and in the patch of backyard outside the window I remember sitting and building a fence with my dad while our new Siberian Husky puppy, Misha, ran through the yard and into my eight year-old lap. I won’t be in this house long. It’s been a month, and at the most I’m anticipating…

thank you; your gift is a rabbit-eared family

I woke up in a panic this morning. Five days left before I leave Stepanavan. Two of those days will be spent doing a camp in a village near here, so in truth, we’re talking three short days here before I cram everything I own, and something things Peace Corps owns, into a taxi and ride to the capital. Good news, I did not stay sick, and Easter-In-June was a wild success. Bad news, I don’t have time for a good post. I have pictures to get printed, camp materials to gather, unseen waterfalls to find, and flesh and blood…