NEW BOOK: Accidents Will Happen
In this debut essay collection, Ryan Rickrode reflects on what it means to be a son and to become a father in a world full of chainsaws, ladders, and lead paint.
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Consuming Fire
memoir essay
I’m surprised when I walk out of the video store and it’s raining ash. So complete is the apparent lack of concern among the Montanans, you’d never guess that just five miles outside of town two thousand acres of land are burning.
First Published 2018 in Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing
MoreImages of the Invisible
memoir essay
In America we have always been good at taking Jesus out of context and refashioning him in our own image. Shortly after the Louisiana Purchase, Thomas Jefferson did it with scissors.
First Published 2014 in The Cresset
MoreSix Feet From The Sun
memoir essay
When you’re a carpenter’s son there are things you don’t tell your mother. The old asbestos siding Dad had you driving nails into, for instance. Or the ceiling fan he wired without first shutting off the power. Or how you close your eyes when you bring the round whirling blade of the chop saw down on a length of spouting so you won’t get any flecks of aluminum in your eyes. How it just seems safer that way.
First Published 2013 in The Common
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Ryan Rickrode 