Issue 58 | The Sun Magazine

August 1980

Readers Write

My Work, My Job

It was our dog’s house, a great bush heavy  with white flowers and the droning of big old bumblebees. Its branches cascaded over, forming a dog-sized cave with a floor of finely powdered dirt. It was also my retreat when the pressures of being ten years old drove me from the house, slamming the screen door and declaring to the world, “All I want to be is a dirty, old, nice, stinking dog.” Life was too complex to endure. So I’d crawl under the bush, curl into the fetal position, venturing one lone hand out to stroke the silky dirt into piles.

By Our Readers


Task: to be where I am.
Even when I’m in this solemn and absurd
role: I am still the place
where creation does some work on itself.

Tomas Tranströmer

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Tchad — A Memoir

Barbara Fassler, another faculty wife, asked me if I’d like to go to a poetry reading at Grinnell College. Sure, I said — what’s it about?

By Linne Gravestock
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Artists And Magicians

The adornment of utilitarian design began as protection or sign. In response to dream or invocation, a man meant by adornment of his dwelling and person to take charge of himself and not leave to chance his relationship with man and mystery.

By Roxy Gordon
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Something Does Push The River

David Spangler On Community And Commitment

It’s interesting that, in our culture, the Christian pattern is the dominant one, and yet when we reach out to build a new culture, it’s often the last place that we look. I can readily understand why that’s so, given the experiences “that many of us may have gone through with institutionalized religion. Also, when we’re reaching out to discover our own thresholds and our own new dimensions of growth, it’s good to break away from the familiar. Having done that, it’s useful to come back and take a second or third look at the Christian tradition, and today I will be looking at a particular aspect of it.

By David Spangler


I arrive late, as usual, paper ends flapping from my briefcase, crumbs clinging to my coat after a crackers-and-cheese lunch between stoplights. Picking my way across the muddy yard from my parking place in a tow-away zone, I glance at the glassed-in central staircase of the high school to check the time. No students are passing, not even dawdlers, so the third period bell has already rung. My Vietnamese pupils will be sitting in the Humanities Resource Room, patiently awaiting me, their teacher in transit.

By Carol Hoppe

Photographs By Priscilla Rich

The photographs from this selection are available as a PDF only. Click here to download.

By Priscilla Rich