I've been doing some blogging recently for the Huffington Post. My last blog entry discusses several odd experiences that Jeff and I had after we lost Reid. People would approach us, clearly wishing to give us solace--and then do or say something completely inappropriate.

We didn't let the bereavement gaffs bother us too much. More than anything, I felt bad for the people who made them. So I decided to write something on the topic. You can find my column here:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jan-deblieu/what-to-say-when-someone-_b_5774422.html

You can find my other blog entires in the Huff Post simply by typing Jan DeBlieu into the Search bar.

*Friends helped plant a garden at the crash site where Reid was killed--one of the kindest and most effective gestures anyone made.*

PostedSeptember 18, 2014

AuthorJan DeBlieu

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Twenty years ago, more or less, I was invited to join some other writers who were touring the Appalachian Mountains, visiting colleges and giving readings. Jeff and Reid, then age three, came along. This was a fun group. They joked and talked about their work and formed a loose camaraderie with just about everyone. “Just about” is the operative phrase.

As the days unfolded, I became aware that a poet and essayist from Oregon named Kim Stafford kept abandoning the central group and making a point to talk to those on the fringes,

PostedMay 15, 2014

AuthorJan DeBlieu

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THE WOMAN SAT on a rolled-out sleeping bag beneath the protective awning of an office building, just barely out of the cold winter rain. Her hair, brown and curly, seemed bouncy in a way that she did not. She was perhaps 30, dressed in jeans and a pretty, if frayed, pink fleece jacket. She might have been a backpacker ready to embark on a weekend camping trip—except that she wasn’t. An array of plastic bottles holding water and GatorAde sat next to her on the sidewalk. As I watched from the window of my dry, warm car, she rooted through a large backpack and pulled out an extra pair of socks.

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