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Family and Relationships

The Sun Interview

An Interview With Warren Barrett

The name “Storybook Farm” came when I was reading to my kids one night, and in the middle of this book, there was a picture of this farm. When I saw the picture I said, “Oh wow, how beautiful! One of these days, we’re going to have a place just like that. A storybook farm.”

By Elizabeth Campbell January 1979
Readers Write

Animals

Blaze’s five-gaited walk, Spot’s violent death, Tiger’s Mississippi River adventure

By Our Readers January 1979
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

All In Common

What Gets Shared (And What Doesn’t) In Small Communities

Most communal groups in the United States today (of which by far the largest number are urban) are expense-sharing groups, at least as far as such things as groceries, mortgage or rent, taxes, utilities and vehicles used in common are concerned.

By Judson Jerome January 1979
Sy Safransky's Notebook

December 1978

Thanksgiving

Anchors raised, we were a free people journeying into our own living flesh, and consciousness striving to know itself: political freedom; economic freedom; sexual freedom; artistic freedom. The freedom to abuse freedom. To enslave, and to set free. To become President, and to bear arms: to lean a rifle on a window sill, take aim, squeeze the trigger, and hurl a tiny speck of our own dark heart into the tissue of another. All for the sake of freedom — the greatest burden, the greatest joy.

By Sy Safransky December 1978
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Pity: A Lesson In Self-Discovery

I have read that within the veneer of each heart a limp fist of pity is hanging. That is, in all the sadness and confusion of its tangle of veins the heart is the package in which pity is stored, the container in which it is marketed. One might say: I’d like two loaves of bread, a half-pound of bologna, a pint of macaroni salad, and a heart and a half of pity, please.

By Frank Graziano December 1978
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Angel At The Gate

In the year I was sixteen, on the first day of that new year, my father died, and since that time I have longed hopelessly for a paradise that will never return.

By David M. Guy December 1978