April Lidinsky

Michiana Chronicler

April Lidinsky is a writer, activist, mother, foodie, black-belt, organic gardener, and optimist.   She directs the Women's and Gender Studies Program at IU South Bend.

Commentary
8:05 am
Fri September 26, 2014

Tiny House, Big Life

As we kiss summer goodbye and head back into our homes with their clanking furnaces, cozy blankets and pie, it’s a good time to consider the connections between our houses … and ourselves.

Some of the biggest ideas in home-building right now are quite … small.  Tiny, actually.  It seems like everyone, suddenly, is talking about tiny houses. And yes, that’s actually the term – not downsized, not small, but … tiny. The average size of a house in the U.S. is 2300 square feet, and tiny houses are about 400 – and sometimes more like 70.

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Commentary
7:36 am
Fri August 8, 2014

The Train Truth

If you groove on the idea that “it’s the journey, not the destination,” long-distance train travel is calling your name.  There are more efficient ways to cross the Rockies and Sierras, sure, but it’s hard to beat the enchantment of Amtrak’s California Zephyr if you want to get from Denver to San Francisco.  Our family boarded the Zephyr last week, and we still feel bewitched.

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Commentary
7:30 am
Fri June 20, 2014

Space Time Travel

In this summer travel season, when many of us return to places filled with personal history, here’s a meditation on the space-time continuum. The whole topic of revisiting is saturated with regret – witness E.B. White’s classic essay, “Once More to the Lake,” worth rereading in spite of his melancholy theme that returning to the lake of his youth is shadowed by loss.  The adult E.B.

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Commentary
7:30 am
Fri May 2, 2014

Muscle Memory in Springtime

That’s me … trying – ugh, so thunkingly – trying to remember how beauty works.  I used to be able to play Chopin’s Nocturne, Opus 72, Number 1 in C minor as if it were second nature – easily, beautifully.  I’ve felt hungry for its sadness and sweetness in my fingers these days, so I’ve cracked open my old music book.  Muscle memory is carrying me part of the way back to the song, but it takes more effort than I expected.  My muscles dimly remember, but my fingers are stiff, and a decades-old injury from a delicatessen meat-slicer has left my middle finger numb at the tip and fumbli

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