It was the kind of morning I would never spend outside: 46-degrees Fahrenheit, rain running down the bare trees and pooling up on the muddy ground. Nothing looked alive.
I have a dear friend who is planning to leave Detroit very soon to move West. After living in and around Detroit all his life, he is taking a new job in sunny California. He is, by definition, the very demographic Michigan wants to hold on to...
Some time back, two friends gave my wife and I a housewarming present: a copy of Upton Sinclair’s 1906 novel, The Jungle. Not the sunniest way to help a couple settle into a new house, but it’s a thoughtful gift if you know us.
In an undisclosed parking lot somewhere on the southern shore of Lake Erie, the weak December sun fizzled out like a match dropped in the snow.
Supposedly, “Michigander” is an offensive term, first coined by Abraham Lincoln as an insult. Lincoln thought Lewis Cass, the great Michigan governor for which so much of our institutions and municipalities are named...
Off in the far northwestern corner of Ohio near the town of Hicksville, I sat on an aluminum ladder lashed to a tree in the predawn gloom freezing my ass off.
The novelist John Williams (1922-1994) wasn’t much of a pitchman for his work. In the late 50s he wrote a letter to his agent, Marie Rodell, to discuss one of the books he was working on...
Nolan Finley, a columnist for the Detroit News, recently asked for the second time where the black people were in downtown Detroit. Has he been to Punch Bowl Social lately? Let’s talk about Punch Bowl Social for a bit.
Belt Publishing is thrilled to announce a new imprint, to be launched later 2016. The imprint will feature mid-career and emerging authors writing "novella" length non-fiction.
Harvey & Me is written by Anne Elizabeth Moore and drawn by Melissa Mendes. This installment is titled "Book Signing."
Our pilgrimage began on a freakishly warm day in early November. A south wind calmed the lake as David Wilson and I crossed the four-mile stretch from the Marblehead Peninsula to Kelleys Island.
Like many Greek-Americans in the Chicago suburbs in the 60s and 70s, my family had a bookshelf full of titles by Harry Mark Petrakis.