Marion Whitley: ‘My’ garden
“My” garden is now at its unruly best which means the spots where nothing grows are camouflaged with “make-up” (ferns and artificial boxwood).
Marion Whitley: The letter thing
I find it hard to let go of letters. And the problem with that is, they pile up! Or DID! Telephones and email are closing in fast and may put an end to ‘correspondence’ as we knew it!
Marion Whitley: And so what’s on your bedside table?
Go ahead, ask me what’s on my bedside table. The usual… assorted reading material, maybe not current but not quite ready for tossing …
Marion Whitley: Eulogy, confession or (The Etch-a-Sketch Affair)
Of course I’d known her, slightly. She was kin, but lived in town, a world away.
Marion Whitley: Waiting for the Uptown M15
At the 14th Street Crosstown bus stop… I navigated the pedestrian traffic, dodging the McDonalds crowd and the ice cream truck … made it safe to the sheltered Uptown bench, and a vacant seat!
Marion Whitley: Love letter to the Dem School (and student teachers in Navy Blue)
I was fresh off my grandfather’s farm on Highway 12, broken-hearted at leaving my Caledonia classmates and Miss King. Life didn’t end, but changed in unexpected ways when I found myself enrolled at MSCW’s Demonstration School.
Marion Whitley: T-shirts, flags and dental loyalties
Safe to say, most visitors to New York take at least a ‘walk through’ in Rockefeller Center if only to spot the Skating Rink, Radio Music Hall and the celebrated Christmas tree.
Marion Whitley: A front seat story in praise of working men
My trip across town in a delivery van with a Chinese cabinet and a bamboo chair began with Saturday’s trip to the Salvation Army. The table I’d passed up last week was gone, but an odd chair caught my eye. The tight woven seat and back offered zero cushioning, but, reduced from $99 to $79? Sold!
Marion Whitley: Ambrosia? Food of the who?
“Will you be serving ambrosia?” Another Mississippian who’d come North to a teaching career included this question in his Christmas greeting, and the answer was, “No, I wouldn’t.”
Marion Whitley: Velco vs Vine
I am 5, barefoot, in the garden with my mother, gathering beans and okra for dinner. Something crawls across my foot. I shiver and squeal thinking “worm!” But it’s a furry bean vine.
Marion Whitley: The urge to reach out
Recently, I happened to be standing in line at my Eastside Manhattan grocery checkout behind two Muslim women wearing hijabs.
Local voices: From Mississippi to Manhattan
In the park one Sunday, I was sharing coffee and gossip with a neighbor who’s a waiter in a French restaurant.