An old photo of my Mom, Nancy Harvell, with an Olympic torch. The flame of her memory burns bright.

Love speaks even when the person can’t. For Mom.

Obituary for Leland Eugene Glover, a wanderer and industrial electrician who loved the Yankees, his family and his lap dogs. RIP, Gypsy Gene.

This poem was written for my “kids” in response to the dVerse Poets Pub prompt from Laura called Cascading in Fives.

A poem about ripples reminding of those days of cooking and wine, stories and trust, laughter and imagination, acceptance and love.

Pumpkin spice is a thing, a social movement, a gotta-have-mine-it’s-October pull of nature almost stronger than a biological clock, but geeeeez, trying to project that onto poor birds seems like a Big Bad Bird Wrong

A family cooking class was a GREAT opportunity to finalize the Glover Gardens gumbo recipe. And, what a great Gumbo Team my second cousins made… the Owens Gumbo Bros.

Seagulls recall a jazz standard, Side by Side, and the Glovers of Glover Gardens had an anniversary.

Sometimes, people die because they feel “less than”; they die because they think they’re alone. They think they’re the only ones crying in the night, because they’re crying alone and don’t feel safe enough to talk about it. We. Have. To Talk. About. It.

My grandmother is 100 today, a bona fide centenarian. Wow!

Glover Gardens’ first guest blogger shares memories of his grandmother with a beautiful translation of Still by Jupiter Jones.

Oh how therapeutic laughter is! Can’t you feel it just looking at them? This is one of the favorite pictures I’ve ever snapped. I have no idea if it’s “any good” by photography standards, but it makes me happy every time I look at it.

A 7th grade essay sums up how gumbo got started for us: “My family has a 35-year history with gumbo.” Part 2 of a series.

A giant pork chop with homemade spaetzle served on vintage Corelle dishes proves once again that Food is Love.

Another foot surgery, more musing, and some great meals provided by the Grill-Meister.

I’m not on the recommended pace to write a poem each day this month to participate in National Poetry Month, but this one happened in about 30 seconds. There will never be another muse like my Dad. He was a remarkable, wonderful, loving, accepting, listening…

An elegy for three, from the one remaining. They live in my heart-theater, their voices all trumpets and whispers and hugs.

A well-worn family cookbook, Great Tastes from the Texas Coast, provides my late Mom’s guidance for antipasto success.

A treasure trove of family photos includes some from my 6th birthday.

Labor Day weekend of 2000 was the last time I saw my Mom; we shared cherries and empathy at the beach house on the Bolivar Peninsula.