Stuff in the Basement

“These things I remember as I pour out my soul:  how I used to go with the multitude,  leading the procession to the house of God,  with sho...

C. C. and Neeltje Schaap For someone like myself, not to bring up the CRC Synod, which begins today, is quite frankly impossible. Pardon the...

  I didn't know him--couldn't have. He was killed four years before I was born. For years I wouldn't have known his story any mo...

Way back when, I'm sure I would have been committed to a variety of stories in this very first collection of immigrant stories I'd c...

Klassen returned two days later as the sun rose over the Iowa prairie. It was crisp that morning; a cold winter wind blew some light snow ou...

It's clear to me here that I was showing off a bit because I was proud of the fact that I knew how to do Adriaan's job--how to skin ...

“My tears have been my food day and night,  while men say to me all day long,  'Where is your God?'"   When my alma mater c...

Then, slowly, the rabid humping abated. Convulsive jerks still roiled the water, but the bubbles rose smaller and less frequently. Adriaan S...

Adriaan's directive, from the man who employs him, is to be sure to run the trapline. I have no idea if immigrant Hollanders ran traplin...

It's been a long time since I ran a story on the blog, even longer since I've written one--fiction, actual imaginative literature.  ...

I'm not sure exactly what to call it--part pageant, part museum, and part rock concert. Whatever Brule' is, it's marvelous enter...