Author me margaret
I wrote this essay 5 years ago, for the 10th anniversary of 9/11. I still mean every word of it… ### Last Saturday night, I was sitting with some friends on our second-story office porch overlooking Waterfront Park. The air was… Continue Reading →
I wade into this column with trepidation. There’s something beautiful I want to share with you, but I’ll have to walk through a field of landmines to get to my point. Along the way, I’ll be discussing things like race… Continue Reading →
Have I mentioned that I like birds? Yes, that was sarcasm. And unlike Donald Trump, I understand the meaning of the word. I’m well aware I’ve written about birds here. Ad nauseam. (Your nauseam, not mine. I could go on… Continue Reading →
To find my own path in the woods… To proceed down that path with joy and courage And also with humility . . . Never expecting anybody to follow But always welcoming fellow travelers . . . To wish only… Continue Reading →
Before sunup last Thursday morning, I dragged my creaky self, in my creaky station wagon, over to the Lowe’s parking lot to fetch my daughter. She’d been bussed back to Beaufort overnight with 80 local teenagers who’d just spent the… Continue Reading →
Recently, I was lying in bed at 3:40 am – never a great time to be awake – thinking about the column I had to write later that day. When you’ve been penning columns for 15 years, like me, you… Continue Reading →
I think I’ve mentioned our cat door, haven’t I? There’s no more certain indicator that spring is sprung than the sudden annual influx of critters – the undomesticated kind – through the small, humble flap that separates our kitchen from… Continue Reading →
In the days immediately following Pat Conroy’s death, I couldn’t write a word. It happened on a Friday night, and by Saturday morning there were already long, comprehensive tributes appearing in publications as nearby as the Beaufort Gazette, as far-flung… Continue Reading →
Miracles, signs and wonders abound, y’all. About a year ago, my friend Gam Foster asked me to give a talk about writing to a group of school teachers . . . many of whom teach writing to kids. I know… Continue Reading →
Pat Conroy liked to write notes. Long ones, short ones, both trivial and profound. And no matter how long he’d known you, he always signed them: “Great love, Pat Conroy.” Always included his last name. I asked him about it… Continue Reading →