James D. Hogan

First Summer on Locust Creek

On September 15, 2022

Scenes from our first mountain summer.

We walk in the evenings, for even in the mountains the days get warm. Once the sun falls past the ridge line, the valley releases into the cool of evening. A simple walk: up the road that leads to our house, up toward the meadow, where the valley floor accommodates a sloped pasture, where on the upper side grows hay, and on the far side the cattle graze.

Golden hour in the Appalachians sets the vista in theatrical light. The tops of the ridges bask in glow; straight down the valley, the broad shoulders of other ridges, still warm, fade into a deep green, then into orange, and then into shadow.

It is certainly warm enough to work up a sweat, but in the evening the settling temperatures tend to stir up a breeze more often than not, and this dappled wind is grace. You can hear it pour down from up the hill, rustling the leaves in a way that tricks your ears at first–is it a car? Is it a sudden rush of water?–before it greets your face. Out here, you can hear the breeze coming just like you can hear any cars long before they appear. Not much else makes much noise.

The Hunt

By James D. Hogan

On July 4, 2022

In writing

What do you see when you aim to stop looking?

Kelly and I are standing, ankle-deep, in rising surf, watching. The water slinks past our feet, and as the ocean reclaims it, we stare where the sand is pulled back. “Look for the darkest black, a color that doesn’t shine but absorbs all the light,” she says. “Don’t focus on shape.”

Before me, tens of thousands of little objects glimmer in a glaring noon-sun light, remnants of an entire civilization of bivalve mollusks whose crusty shell-houses have been thrown upon the beach, crushed by relentless waves and the heavy footsteps of beachcombers, and scattered across the sand. There is an astonishing spectrum of color: pink, indigo, purple, rust-red, and on occasion even hints of yellow.

We are looking for shark teeth, perhaps my wife’s favorite and most notorious beachtime hobby. I stare downward at the sand, pacing my breath, tempering my synapses. Thousands of shell fragments. Don’t focus on shape, I repeat, even as my brain impulsively picks out triangles. I see nothing. Kelly reaches down and scoops out a fossilized tooth, black as night. Rather, another one. She has a pocketful.

Cut to the heart

By James D. Hogan

On June 6, 2022

In writing

Nobody seems to know what to do with it all.

By now, you have no doubt heard the same details I have, facts that make the atrocious murder of 19 children and their two teachers somehow much worse. That the police did not realize there were children still alive and trapped in the classroom with the shooter while they waited. That those children called 911, begging operators to send help. That one child smeared another child’s blood on herself and played dead. That at least one frantic mother ran into the school to find her child.

Like every parent in America, I grappled with that last thought–of the parents, assembled at the little elementary school, despairing, separated from their children while the scene remained active.

Like every parent in America, I saw the photos of the children online, saw the little boy with his tie on–it was awards day–running, terrified, and transposed my own son’s face upon his.

Like every parent in America, I kissed my children goodbye, sending them off for their last week of school, taking extra time to deeply inhale the scent at the crowns of their heads, my nose pressed warmly against their hair.