Authors

Jo Freeman Reviews: "William Alsup writes that I was wrong; that there were some young white men who heard the civil rights movement’s message that white supremacy and segregation were wrong. They may not have bought into all of its messages — at least not then — but they heard enough of it to knock cracks in the closed society of Mississippi. The author's memoir is not just about himself, but the small group of young white men who were his pals in his hometown of Jackson and on the campus of Mississippi State University (MSU). It’s about coming of age in the middle of a revolution and being "won over" to the other side." more »

Rose Madeline Mula writes: I can’t remember when I became an insomniac. It’s mostly my own fault. I break all the rules. I know I’m supposed to limit screens (TV, computer, tablet, cell phone) for a period before bedtime — and certainly not allow any of these Morpheus murderers into my boudoir, but I just can’t do it. I need them all to distract my imaginative, catastrophizing mind from countless concerns, which multiply exponentially the moment I cross the threshold into my bedroom.  more »

Joan L. Cannon wrote: Those two little old ladies couldn't have succeeded any better. It didn't take us long to figure out the gentle scheming between the two aging unmarried friends. We accepted their kind attentions with gratitude. We were married for over fifty-seven years. We have three children and seven grandchildren thanks to the conspiracy of two little old ladies whose interest in such matters completely escaped my notice at the time. more »

The first thing I placed in the shipping box was a container with his ashes. It was lightweight because scoops had already been removed and scattered. One batch of my second husband's remains went to Jackson Park where Tommy got a hole in one. Another was spread among the plantings outside the YMCA, his longtime gym; and one more in the park where every morning for 12 years we walked our dog. Sitting outdoors on a perfect Chicago summer day coaxes my mind to travel backward to other unforgettable places where I have perched. And like a jigsaw puzzle whose picture only emerges when all of the parts are snug in place, I add the characters who help create a picture of my past. more »