Meredith Harmon
Bio
Mix equal parts anthropologist, biologist, geologist, and artisan, stir and heat in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, sprinkle with a heaping pile of odd life experiences. Half-baked.
Achievements (26)
Stories (448)
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Softer Mountains
Dearest Hank, What a commotion! If it weren’t for the fact that it’s your farm, and all I did was join you in wedded matrimony, I would resign the whole dad-blamed place and run away. As soon’s you left, my Pa saw them dollar signs a-swimmin in his head, and tried to take the farm for hisself. Tad, bless him, must be feeling all of fourteen years and reared up on his hind legs and roared at my father to git off the property. That’s our boy! But then turned around and musta been seeing them dollar signs hisself, ‘cause suddenly he wanted to plant the whole property in wheat! No hay for the cattle, no corn for the hogs, just wheat! And tried to take MY herb garden for his first field, and the rose bush you planted for me! I took the ax outta his hands and boxed his ears something fierce, telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen to his arms if he so much as laid a finger on what’s mine by right. Son or not of ours, Tad’s gotten a bit too big for his britches, and I’ll still give him a whuppin if he thinks to do it behind my back.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in History
The Evolution of Our Kitchen
Ahh, the joys of being Penna Dutch... and obsessed with food. When my great-to-the-fourteenth ancestor, John Jacob Dreibelbis, came over as an indentured servant, he was given a parcel of land after working for seven years. His son, Jacob B, was the one who founded the farm at the end of town. Nowadays, owning a piece of land implies you're rich. Then? Dirt poor. The kitchen still has two shadowboxes of glued fish bones in patterns from the suckers they net-trapped in the river, the only part of the fish that's inedible.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Feast
Hansel and Girdle
My brother was being a rather large pain in the tuchus again. I don’t mind him using me as his dressmaker’s model, really. He makes some really awesome stuff, and I get to look good. He’s got a bunch of like-minded friends, and they do my hair and makeup too. And then they mutter about “vision” and “aesthetic” and drag me places for photo shoots.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
King of Thieves
My boyfriend was acting crazy again. The thing is, he knew I was actually working late. The new recombinant batch was almost at gestation, and we wanted this set to finally live. If we succeeded, our reputations and careers were set for life.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
Offshoring
I didn’t know which one was about to blow their gasket, so I kept an eye on all three of them. And let me tell you, it’s frikiastikós difficult to tell them apart on a good day. They keep shuttling themselves into each others’ positions, and none of us can tell them apart any more.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Muses of Song
I’ve wandered around quite a lot over the years. No, I no longer have a corporeal body. I haven’t had one in millennia, though the poets still ascribe one to me. And please don’t get me started on those Eros-struck painters and their lascivious paintings! Really, guys, go take a cold bath. A long one. My cousin Boreas will supply you with lots and lots of ice.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
Quilting a Nation. Top Story - February 2025.
I cried as I sewed the latest patch into the quilt. My tears stained the delicate fabric, and neither I nor the others gathered around the frame made a move to wipe them clean. I heard, much later, that one of the little embroidery girls stitched gossamer threads around each splash.
By Meredith Harmonabout a year ago in Fiction
