Clippings: Rip Van Winkle back in the classroom

“I’m Professor Van Winkle — you can call me ‘Rip.’” That’s how I introduced myself this fall on Sept. 9 at 9 a.m. to 16 fresh-faced Middlebury College first-year students.

My sainted mother, the original Jane Lindholm, had an aphorism for every occasion and loved to trot them out. She was a regular Ben Franklin, and I was a gold mine for this predilection, given my adolescent indifference to manual labor and disciplined eff … (read more)

I was excited to tell you how much my family has loved watching “Life on Our Planet,” the new Morgan Freeman-narrated nature doc on Netflix — a great activity for the whole fam! But then we watched the final episode, and it wasn’t fun and fascinating anym … (read more)

As the oldest of eight children, I’d like to think I’ve imparted some wisdom onto my younger siblings over the years.

“Hello, my name is Amie, and I have a sock problem.”

This one’s gonna hurt. Our beloved cat, Bart, was hit by a car last week. He didn’t make it.

I’m trying to break my newspaper habit. For all of my adult life, I have read a newspaper, real newspapers, made out of paper, newsprint. Hard copy. 

I have often thought that humans have an innate desire for communion and communication with other creatures.

Years ago, when I was the mom of a toddler and a preschooler, I bought a large whiteboard calendar at TJ Maxx because I thought it would bring order to the chaos of my life.

How can something so small and angelic be such a little devil?

While riding my bike to work one Wednesday morning I rear-ended a stationary pick-up truck on Main Street during morning rush hour. The pickup won.

The other day I watched my 8-year-old discover the joy of liner notes.

College is held on a pedestal. Next year, that pedestal will be raised even higher, with Middlebury College’s annual tuition and fees surpassing $80,000. I am left wondering: is it really worth it?

Of all the internship positions offered through Mansfield Hall this summer, the opportunity to write some film reviews for the Addison Independent felt the most relevant to me and my interests in writing screenplays.

While big, Bertha was a pussycat with her family. She’d sprawl out for belly rubs and give you an indignant glance if you stopped.