The Importance of Dragonflies (Poem: Old Wings)

Posted on September 3, 2026 by Michelle Garren-Flye

It’s been a great summer for dragonflies. Hot, humid, lots of rain. I’ve seen them everywhere. In my yard, escorting my car to work or the grocery store, hovering over every puddle after a rain shower.

The last time we had so many dragonflies was a summer when I was going through a very profound change in my life, so it’s appropriate that they are here this year, though I haven’t figured out yet if they are helpers or just harbingers of impending change.

Yesterday as I was walking my dog and paused to admire them, I had a…vision? thought? memory?…of myself with dragonfly wings. It made me think about how we talk about our kids “spreading their wings”. And that made me wonder…what happens to our wings? As a parent, I always wanted to be within easy reach of my kids. If their wings weren’t spread yet, then I must have voluntarily folded mine.

Now that my children have spread their wings to begin chasing their dreams, is there any reason I shouldn’t spread mine? Is there anything keeping me earthbound now?

Do old wings still work?

Old Wings
By Michelle Garren-Flye 

I am naught but sparkling wings
as I climb into the sky
to follow the paths of kings.

There’s no such thing as strings
when you are up so high
and you’re naught but sparkling wings.

Rising sun brings awakenings
as I gain height and fly
along the paths of kings.

No more time for earthbound things
or worries it’ll go awry;
I’m naught but sparkling wings.

No regrets, apologies or playthings
allowed—just say goodbye—
and soar to the paths of kings.

Death may wait but it’s lost its stings.
I’m climbing now, you can’t hear me cry;
I’m naught but sparkling wings. 
You'll find me on the paths of kings.

Photo and poem by Michelle Garren-Flye copyright 2026

Opening Night of To Kill a Mockingbird (and what it meant to me)

Posted on July 11, 2026 by Michelle Garren-Flye

I was born at the beginning of the 1970s in the mountains of North Carolina. Maybe it was the altitude of my little town (3,000+ above sea level), but the end of Jim Crow Laws didn’t seem to mean much there when I was young.

And really, I was too young to be aware of much, but I remember hearing my parents whispering about burning crosses and nooses. For some reason, the streetlight on the corner near my house marked an area of our neighborhood I wasn’t allowed in. An area of people whose skin was darker than mine but who lived the same way I did.

Mostly we used the “polite” word. Colored. But as my brothers and I got older, we rode bikes and climbed trees and played stickball games until well after dark with any color child that showed up, regardless of which side of the neighborhood they were on. The streetlight on the corner shone equally on us all.

I never really understood any of what was happening around me or what I heard until much later. I didn’t know what racism was or that some of the people I knew were racists. Even some of the people I loved.

And it wasn’t until recently that I realized I would be banishing vestiges of that same racism that I was born and bred with for the rest of my life.

It’s a journey.

The thing I have learned from playing Miss Maudie in To Kill a Mockingbird in our local theatre production is that this journey is one I can’t just take in my own shoes. As a white Southern woman, I have to look past my own sphere into others’ worlds. I have to not only see other people for what they are but to feel it as best I can.

This nearly 100-year-old play remains important to this day because our nation continues to a journey toward enlightenment and living together. Sometimes we go forward in this journey. Sometimes we take a step back. But I believe eventually we will reach that light, and maybe we will find a really fun stickball game going on under it. A game everyone plays together./

For My Daddy

Posted on January 29, 2026 by Michelle Garren-Flye

This is a little bit stream-of-consciousness, so bear with me.

Yesterday, my dad died. Today, I will write his obituary.

I loved my dad. He was a good man. Fallible? Yes, of course. Very human and definitely from a different generation than me. But today none of that matters, because today, I’m remembering the way he knew every birdcall that we heard when we sat together on our old screened-in porch. He loved wildlife, all animals, really.

One of my dad’s bird feeders with a very happy mockingbird.

And man, did he have a green thumb. When I was a kid, he had a garden. It must have been half an acre. He grew corn, tomatoes, okra, yellow squash, green beans, potatoes, onions…and sunflowers. I don’t know if he ever harvested the sunflower seeds or if he just let the birds come and peck them off themselves.

He grew the most amazing roses, too. If he planted the rosebush, it would bloom, and the longer he tended it, the more amazing the blooms were. I often sent him a miniature rose bush and would come home a few months later to find it planted and flourishing.

My dad worked hard. He worked at DuPont Plant for more than thirty years. Part of that was 12-hour “swing shifts”. During one of my summer breaks, I worked these shifts with him as part of a summer program for college students. The day shifts were tough. Getting up at 4 a.m. and driving thirty minutes up a mountain to start work at 6 a.m. and work until 6 p.m. while most of my schoolmates were working 6-8 hours at McDonald’s was one thing. Forcing myself to sleep during the day and get up to go to work at 6 p.m. was in some ways even worse. I sometimes wonder how many of those drives up the mountain I was actually awake for. In fact, my dad said he knew those hairpin turns so well, he could drive them with his eyes shut.

He may have.

My dad loved music, but to this day I could not tell you for certain what his favorite song, musician, or even genre was. If there was music playing, he was enjoying it. He could sing, too. When I was very little, I have a vivid memory of him clapping his hands and stomping his feet and singing:

Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man
Washed his face in a frying pan
Combed his hair with a wagon wheel
Died with a toothache in his heel

…and my mother scolding him, “Carl, you’re going to bring the house down!” And I believed her because he did make the house shake when he wanted to. When he “roughhoused” with me and my brothers, for instance. My dad was a champion tickler. He’d make us shriek until my mother told him to cut it out, and we’d take a good five minutes laying on the floor giggling to recover.

I could go on about my dad and what a good man he was. He didn’t drink or smoke or gamble. Every penny he got, he spent to make the people and animals in his life happy. Us kids never wanted for anything. He fed and clothed us, took us all on a family vacation to the beach every year, bought us all cars to knock around in once we had our driver’s licenses (remind me to tell you about the Chevy Citation with power steering on only one side). He borrowed money from the government so I could go to college, and he was always there when I went over budget.

In every way, my dad was a good man. But more than that, he was an excellent father.

I love you, Daddy.

Carl Lee Garren
July 31, 1932-January 28, 2026

Poem: The Madmen

Posted on June 22, 2025 by Michelle Garren-Flye

I think we all need to hear something like this now.

I Could Not Have Gone to College Without Federal Aid

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Michelle Garren-Flye

When I graduated from high school (I think I was third in my class and my SAT scores always got an “ooh” of respect although I do not remember what they were), I already knew where I wanted to go to college. UNC-Chapel Hill received my “yes, please” in the return mail.

Problem was, I had no money, my parents (who had not had the opportunity to attend college) had never had a chance to save any, and I had little or no know-how on how to get money for college. A conversation with the financial aid office at UNC solved that problem. I soon had several low- or no-interest loans from the federal government and a couple of higher-interest loans from private institutions to tide me over for the full four years. My father also applied for and received a federal grant so he could help me.

This was my first real experience with the federal government, and I was very grateful. My country believed in me! My country was willing to invest money in me and the promise I had to be a contributing citizen. The belief of my country gave me the belief I needed in myself.

I now own my own business, having raised three children after working as a journalist and librarian. My student loans were paid off years ago, I pay taxes every year, and I’m happy to do it because of the opportunity my government gave me when I was in need.

This is how the American Dream should work, and I pray the U.S. government will not fail the students of now and the future. Believe in them.

Poem for the New Year: Stranger

Posted on January 2, 2025 by Michelle Garren-Flye

My resolution for 2025: I’m going to figure out who I am and why I was given the gifts I was given. I’m going to finish the novel I’ve stopped and restarted multiple times. Maybe I’ll figure out why I am not as kind or giving as I want to be. Maybe I’ll figure out what it is I actually want.

Why is my hair pink, anyway? Obviously because I dye it pink, it doesn’t grow that way. But why? I feel like it’s always been pink, whether that was my doing or not. At one point, I thought dramatically that it turned pink from my broken heart, but now I think, just as dramatically, that my heart never really broke.

It’s probably somewhere in the middle. That’s usually where you find truth.

Anyway, Happy 2025, everyone! May we all find something new and shiny this year.

Stranger
By Michelle Garren-Flye

I want to know you better, stranger.
Why do you tick on even when beat?
I know you quicken when in danger
that so far you’ve managed to cheat.

Breaking you once was a simple chore
but now you’re smart and made of stone.
Like the pig’s house, you’re something more
than straw, but you survive there alone.

I dread with anticipation the day we meet,
come face-to-face and I can no longer pretend.
If only we could shake hands on the street,
perfect strangers right up ‘til the end.

It’s no use, it must be confessed:
I feel you beating away in my chest.

Winter Solstice: Let’s Celebrate the Darkest Day of the Year

Posted on December 21, 2024 by Michelle Garren-Flye

Today is the winter solstice, aka the darkest day of the year. There are fewer minutes of daylight today than on any other day.

It’s my favorite day, not because I don’t like light but because I do. I love light, and if today is the shortest day, then we start getting longer days tomorrow. It’s like hitting rock bottom but knowing you will have the strength to climb back up.

That’s why I wrote my book Winter Solstice, which is now in print in my “Author’s Edition”. This is a day we don’t always appreciate or even note, but it’s worth remembering if there’s a down, there’s usually an up that follows.

Home

Posted on October 2, 2024 by Michelle Garren-Flye

There’s nothing like a mountain fog. It’s hard to put it into words. I remember when I was a kid growing up in Brevard, N.C., I loved foggy mornings. Waiting at the bus stop, I felt like the sky had fallen on me, soft and cool and protective. Later, as a grown-up navigating mountain roads in the fog, I still felt that mystical sense of otherworldliness.

For the past few days, I’ve spent a lot of time poring over pictures of flattened, flooded towns and videos of raging, red rivers full of debris. It’s hard for me to believe this is what’s left of some of the beautiful mountains where I grew up. I’ve lived on the eastern side of the state long enough to know there’s probably more saltwater in my veins than the red clay of the mountains now, but at times like this, I know there’s no denying it.

The coast may have been my destiny, but the mountains are my origin.

I haven’t been back in nearly two years. My mother passed away in February 2023 and I went back for her funeral. After that, my father moved down to Charlotte to be with my uncle and my older brother, and my mountains were just two hours too far to go.

I wonder how it became this hard to take time to get somewhere that’s still important to me.

I heard today that Interstate 40 Westbound was closed at Statesville to stop people wanting to get into the mountains—searching for friends and family, most likely, but maybe just curious. Maybe people like me who suddenly realized that the mountains of their origin might not always be there. The towns we grew up in can be wiped off the earth’s slate.

I’ve heard that Brevard survived, for the most part, in spite of being walloped with 30 inches of rain. But I’ve seen nothing to support that. There’s a webcam in downtown Brevard that is currently offline. I check it daily, sometimes hourly. I know it will likely be days or weeks before it comes back online, if it even survived, but still. It would be reassuring to see.

So little communication is possible, even with my brother and his family who still live there. I’ve gotten a few texts. He managed one phone call to my father.

I feel like the entirety of the North Carolina mountains is shrouded in fog now, but unlike the fog of my childhood, this is not protective, it’s a reminder. Nothing is permanent. Everything can be damaged or taken away.

the sky falls on us

while you, lost mountain girl,

roam the lonely coast

A Poem for Lamar and Drake

Posted on May 14, 2024 by Michelle Garren-Flye

I originally had decided to write a blog post about finally re-watching the entire series of “Lost” because I always felt sure I missed a lot during my first watch of the show during six erratic television seasons. (I really had, too. No doubt, lots of stuff missed during that first viewing.) Then I happened to listen to a podcast about the ongoing war between the two rappers Kendrick Lamar and Drake, found I had an opinion about that, too, and that opinion actually developed into a poem, so, in the realm of Things I Have No Business Commenting On…

Being a fifty-plus-year-old white woman, I don’t really keep up with the hiphop/rap scene much, although I’ve undoubtedly heard some I like. The first I’d heard about the Drake/Lamar feud was a couple weeks ago in a chance remark from a friend. I was interested because Kendrick Lamar had actually achieved something I once wished I could when he won the Pulitzer Prize.

The podcast I listened to was a Washington Post podcast, so fairly unbiased. I’ve read a little more since and talked to a few people. Everyone’s got an opinion, and some people have a less than complimentary view of Drake, influenced, no doubt, by salacious (the news loves that word) rumors and claims about his relationships. As one person said to me with great disdain, “Who’s on team Drake?”

And yet, both rappers have been acting out, putting out music practically in real time over streaming services. It reminds me of old battles that happened in newspapers between politicians or poets like Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg (that’s one of my favorites). Except these “songs” are more than inflammatory disses, they’re downright mean and often libelous, and more than one has been taken down almost as soon as it was put up. Maybe by a manager or someone with some creative control and more common sense?

So, even though I probably don’t have any right to have a real opinion about this rap battle, I was nonetheless moved to write the following poem. As for if I’m on team Lamar or team Drake, I’d just like to say I hate to see anybody wasting their talents dragging apart an art form they both excel at and should spend their time promoting. What good will it do the music world if two bright stars develop a black hole between them?

Beef
By Michelle Garren-Flye

Send out your diss
over the interweb.
Its mark won’t miss
your intended jab.

Insulting pushback,
wasting your time.
Get in the next crack—
make sure to rhyme!

Talent you got in spades
but gotta be sure to rile
when you throw shades!
(What rhymes with pedophile?)

Take it from this old white chick:
you could do so much more.
You could make each word stick,
bring the world to the floor.

But go ahead, send out a slur,
defend what’s left of pride.
Growl and bark like a mad cur,
and we’ll watch from ringside.

This tree has a death sentence. The town has decided it doesn’t look good enough to not be cut down. So it will soon be gone. I’m a little sad. Photo by Michelle Garren-Flye

Why Gen X should be mad at Markiplier

Posted on March 5, 2024 by Michelle Garren-Flye

This morning I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts while walking my dog. “Distractibles” stars youtuber Markiplier and his friends Bob and Wade. My kids introduced me to these guys. They’re freaking hilarious. Except today Markiplier, a Millenial born the year after I graduated high school, glibly stated that Boomers were the generation before Millenials.

Nope.

Listen up, younglings. Gen X is a thing. We are here. We listen to podcasts, read books, consume goods and services, and many of us are not retired yet, so we’re still contributing to the workforce. We might even be your supervisor or boss.

I’m not saying we’re all that great. In fact, we are somewhat responsible (not completely, but we’ve done our share) for the state the world is in right now. Do not call us Boomers. For some of us, Boomers were our parents. For others, the children of the Silent Generation, Boomers were youthful aunts and uncles. Or the young parents of our friends.

Gen X was the generation AFTER Boomers. We’re the generation that learned, early on, to keep our heads down and stay out of trouble. When we were growing up, paddling was still a thing. Sometimes we were even instructed to go out and cut our own switches so we could be “switched” on the backs of bare legs.

This was not child abuse. In fact, our parents were, at least sometimes when we were lucky, good parents. They worked hard to provide. We were the first generation that really mostly had two working parents. And after-school programs and child care weren’t really a thing. We took the bus to school after eating a bowl of cereal, and quite often we came home to empty homes. We had chores. We did our homework without anyone telling us to or standing nearby to re-explain what our teachers had already told us.

And then we watched afternoon television and sometimes fended for ourselves for dinner if mom was working late. We ate bologna and cheese without wondering if the pre-processed foods would damage us. Organic wasn’t a word then. Whole foods? Sure! I ate a whole hot dog.

Gen X has an inbred respect for Authority, which goes hand-in-hand with keeping our heads down and what I see as a sort of impotent anguish and anger about the state of the world. Combine that with a silent disapproval we inherited from our Silent Generation parents regarding mental healthcare and you can see a bit of a pattern.

I object to being forgotten and lumped in with our parents’ generations. We’re still here and we’re still actively working on making the world a better place, even if it isn’t always in a super showy way.

People who are (or were) Gen Xers:

Kurt Cobain.
Will Smith
Elon Musk
Tupac Shakur
Julian Assange
Tiger Woods
Justin Trudeau
Robert Downey Jr.
Eminem
Kanye West

People who are NOT Gen Xers because they actually ARE Boomers:

Donald Trump
Barack Obama
King Charles III
Bill Gates
Vladimir Putin
Howard Stern
Johnny Depp
Elton John
Bill Clinton
Michael Jordan

Not included in this list because he’s actually from the latter part of the Silent Generation: Joe Biden.

Don’t worry, though, Markiplier. Gen X also pretty much does not “cancel” celebrities that piss us off. You might find us watching “Caddyshack” for instance, even though we now know Chevy Chase (born in 1943 and therefore officially a member of the Silent Generation) is an a$$hole.

(Also, I loved Magic Carpet.)

Note: This post was written from the POV of a Gen X’er who was the child of two white, middle class Silent Generation parents.