Beth Ann Fennelly

Nov 14, 2024 | shepherd.com | Lilly Dancyger |Barrie Miskin |Beth Ann Fennelly |Margo Steines

My favorite read in 2024 Lilly presents the consuming power of love as a force that can exist in platonic friendships. Her voice is clear, accessible, and searching, and she represents the 90s/00s downtown NYC that I grew up in with an uncommon allegiance to the vibes of the times. Would read again in a second and probably will. Loved Most 🥇 Writing 🥈 Emotions Writing style ❤️ Loved it Pace 🐕 Steady Why should I read it?

Aug 12, 2024 | gardenandgun.com | Beth Ann Fennelly |Gabriela Gomez-Misserian

In 1978, when she was in her sixties, Eleanor “Sandy” Torrey West, the owner of Georgia’s third-largest barrier island, reluctantly sold it. But she was canny: She negotiated for herself a life estate, which allowed her to continue to live in the 1926 Spanish Colonial Revival mansion her family had built on Ossabaw. I’m betting whoever drew up the document imagined they might soon get their hands on that mansion—but the spry West lived for four more decades, dying on her 108th birthday.

Aug 12, 2024 | flipboard.com | Beth Ann Fennelly

The 'burnt toast theory' in action. The tragic incident in Brazil that went viral over the weekend has thrown up some mind-lowing near-miss …

May 7, 2024 | southernfoodways.org | Beth Ann Fennelly

Verse by Beth Ann Fennelly illustrations by Natalie NelsonEpistle to My Lord Concerning My Sons’ Future SpousesBecause I will not be around forever, Lord,I find myself considering those who will feed my sonsafter I’m gone, Lord, for my sons are joyous eaters,joyous and prodigious, but care not for the waysof the kitchen, despite my attempts at instruction. Forgive them, Lord, they know not how to cook.

Feb 26, 2024 | poetryfoundation.org | Beth Ann Fennelly

reveals itself in retrospect. Unlike the first, whose March arrival bade you gasp, hands clasped, like a child actor instructed to show joy, when the last departs for points south, there’s no telling, and no tell. Well, so what? You know their cycle. In August, they swarm the feeder, all swagger, greedy tussle for sugar water. Suddenly, September. Chill tickles your ankles. You reach for long sleeves and you fret. They’ve left? Not yet. Ear cocked for the symphony’s shrinking strings.