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Ed Ochester

Author

The Wren and His Children

Every morning when I sit on my porch the wren balances on his house upside down or sits on his favorite black walnut twig and sings to me. His song is at least three times as big as his body. He's happy to have carried moths to his brood, their open [...]

Dreaming About My Father

We're painting the old house in the Hudson Valley and we're a team, applying the paint so smoothly that not a drop gets spilled, it's all cream, and for the first time he has no complaints about the way I work. "Good job" he says and smiles when we [...]

The Canaries In Uncle Arthur’s Basement

In the white house in Rutherford the ancient upright piano never worked and the icy kitchen smelled of Spic 'N Span. Aunt Lizzie's pumpkin pie turned out green and no one ate it but me and I did because it was the green of the back porch. That was t [...]

Conversation on Lady Day

The daffodil is not like a trumpet but an old stand-up telephone. I can talk into it and the roots will transmit by gathering the voice into the big base bulb and pulse it through tiny neurotransmitters in the hair roots. "Hello, hello." I can neve [...]