I heat with wood. Most of us up here do. Wood is still cheaper than any other fuel, and it’s available. Some of us cut our own wood, but to do that you have to have a woodlot, a truck, a saw in good condition, and time. My husband and I cut our own wood one winter, but in retrospect it seems like that’s all we did.

“So like, what do you guys do out there?” We get this question a lot, often loaded with presumptions of who we are and what we like to do. Which is fair. Let me be clear, my wife and I, a young married couple in our mid-20s, are outliers.

Winners of this year’s Empire Asparagus Festival poetry contest.

About a block up the road from the old Cannery down on the shore in Glen Haven, Henry “Hank” Bailey gets out of a white Lexus in front of an abandoned, turn-of-the-century building that looks like it used to be a store. The whole village is deserted and sad. Glen Haven today is a bleak little shore-side ghost town in the bright sunlight. It’s the off-season, middle of May, the leaves on the trees are in delicate shades, fuzzy-looking and babyish in their newness.

I am an aficionado of naturalists and field biologists. In a world preoccupied by all manner of human mischief and melodrama, the natural scientist’s wholehearted attention to the lifeways of other organisms, their primal human immersion in wild lives under open skies is a rare and wonderful thing. Their devotion yields knowledge of place, and realer than that it does not get.

The Glen Arbor Art Association’s (GAAA) “Talk About Art” series continues with host Norm Wheeler in conversation with Traverse City poet Fleda Brown on Sunday, May 7, at 2 p.m. at The Leelanau School in Glen Arbor. There is no charge.

The Glen Lake Library will once again host their “Ode to Asparagus” as part of the upcoming Empire Asparagus Festival, on Saturday, May 20. Participants should submit their asparagus-themed poems by Thursday, May 18, along with their name and contact information.

What it was like for this diehard baseball fan to watch the seventh and deciding game of the 2016 World Series last Nov. 2, between my beloved Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians, and the literary armageddon that followed.

Scared, scared, scared. Three of them hold hands. Of the three holding hands, one is Thai international, one is Native American in transition (from female to male), one is white, also in transition. Among the others, one is bi, one is gay, one is trying to figure it out. They are bright — a few are brilliant. They are all generally kind, generally hard-working, opinionated, funny, eager, quirky, often silly, tousled, sometimes-in-need-of-a-shower secondary students. Some have pink hair, or maybe blue this week. Some have tattoos and piercings. Some have creatively decorated their uniforms in such a way that there is no general sense of uniformity. They all understand that this election affects their future.

Nature abhors a vacuum. The same can be said for creative writers without an outlet for publishing their work. And that, dear reader, is one way of explaining how The Dunes Review, a local literary journal, came to be.