Between the Lines

Between the Lines: Run for it, Girl!

Between the Lines: Run for it, Girl!

We can debate whether there is an ongoing war on women, but the irrefutable fact is that issues important to women are being considered and laws are being created without much input from the ladies. The 2015 Congress is 80 percent men. Would abortion coverage be under...
Looking For a Toolbox of Memories

Looking For a Toolbox of Memories

Since my father died just shy of his 80th birthday, I’ve visited his grave only a few times. My mother finds comfort in sitting on the nearby granite bench, listening to the small planes come and go from a nearby airport and communing with her husband of more than...

Between The Lines: Space — It Matters

Now and then, often while we’re preoccupied with some screen or other, something particularly interesting happens in the sky. A very bright star appears, as if it’s suddenly popped through the inky background, and flies across the heavens. It winks out as abruptly as...
Between the Lines: James Tate, 1943-2015

Between the Lines: James Tate, 1943-2015

During my poetry MFA thesis defense some years ago, I sat in a professor’s living room, relieved to hear praise from the committee. Then poet James Tate, who’d been peering over with a semi-grin, weighed in. “Mr. Heflin,” he said, “We’ve praised you enough.” He...
Between the Lines: Textbooks Gone Wild

Between the Lines: Textbooks Gone Wild

I’m a Texan. Sometimes this fact comes in handy — people defer to me when it comes to assigning grades to enchiladas, for instance — and sometimes it compels me to write columns in defense of the good people of the Lone Star State who aren’t a) crazy, b) rabidly...

Between the Lines: In the Clouds

The radio said, “What happened in the terrifying last minutes of Germanwings…” I don’t know how it went from there, because I turned it off. The media coverage of the latest air disaster, like the many that preceded it, is all wrapped up in an unspoken contract:...

Between the Lines: Art and Shovels

My driveway, not long ago, looked like those windswept landscapes where forlorn polar bears play. I’d waited too late to blow the snow, led astray by forecasts of a balmy 52-degree afternoon. I’m bad at snow removal. I blame my Southern childhood, in which frozen...