Anna Henkens Schmidt

My brother, Donald, sent me a text from Costa Rica this morning: “There’s an old story about a Nebraskan who retires. He puts a snow shovel over his shoulder and walks south ’til someone says, ‘What’s that thing?’ And that is where he lives out the rest of his days.” I didn’t make it quite as far as Costa Rica, nor am I retired, but I have lived half of my life in the American Southeast. Snowstorms aren’t a regular occurrence in North Carolina, but they do occur with more regularity than hurricanes in Nebraska. Still, I’ve made it more than twenty years in the South without buying a snow shovel or an ice scraper. My kids don’t have sleds, but we have friends who do. At any given time, it’s anyone’s guess if we all have snow boots that fit. Fortunately, we have plenty of plastic grocery bags, which, paired with thick socks and rubber bands, make for decent winter footwear. With predictions of the snowpocalypse bearing down on us for the last week, I’ve had more than one friend reach out...

“Sorry if I’m talking too fast, I’m from New York,” the x-ray technician said.  “I listen to audiobooks at 2X speed,” I assured her. As though not hearing me, she continued. “You southern people have a hard time keeping up with us New Yorkers.” " I’m from Nebraska.” “Nebraska? You don’t hear that very often.” I gave her a well-practiced Nebraskan response. “Nope.” This woman wore the state of New York like a badge of honor. Her voice was loud enough to carry over a dozen honking taxis, and her personality could have pushed over the Statue of Liberty.  “Have you been in a car accident?” she asked. I wasn’t sure where this was going. “No.” “Experienced some sort of blunt force trauma?” Other than this conversation? “No. I grew up riding horses.” “Oh, that explains it. Don’t you feel how this shoulder is higher than the other?” She placed her hand on my right shoulder. I shrugged. “Not really.” “Well it is. Your body hunches over to the left.” I’d have to take her word for it....

We live in a world where joy and sorrow touch edges more often than we expect. One emotion spills into the next, and sometimes the mix creates something richer than either could alone. This story grew out of that thought: a small fable about a Queen, a magical kingdom, and the surprising gift that comes when tears and laughter share the same sky. Double Rainbows      It’s not easy being the Queen of Magic Land, but when my bedroom wall opens each night after tuck-in, my kingdom beckons.       My work begins as soon as I leave my bed and climb into the realm. The lands glimmer, each offering me an invitation to a new adventure. I wish I could visit them all in one night, but of course this is impossible.       Besides, a Queen must go where she is needed.       And tonight I am needed in Laughing Land.       My stomach hurts just thinking about it. The last time I entered Laughing Land, my sid...

Four missing college girls. Three possible suspects. Two bodies pulled from a lake. One audiobook. The streetlights and moon cast eerie shadows on my morning walks. My dog doesn’t care. Darkness doesn’t dull scent, if the number of times he tugs on the leash is any indication. Each fallen leaf and signpost is worthy of sniffs. I get lost on these walks. Not literally. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for eleven years. But I do get lost in books. My AirPods are basically bodily appendages at this point. In the time it takes to walk the two-and-a-half-mile loop, I have traveled years through time, flown across continents, invested myself in the lives of people who don’t actually exist. Though sometimes I read nonfiction. The exercise is good. My dog’s breed is prone to heart disease, and my body is prone to high cholesterol. These morning walks add steps to our lives. Except when they don’t. On this particular morning, I’m in a thriller. The plot isn’t original. There are dead girls, susp...

Siblings are better known for clobbering than collaboration. So when my oldest brother, Donald, approached me about writing a book together, I wasn’t sure how to react. We’d just survived one of the worst years of our lives. Within nine short months, we lost a sister to cancer, buried our elderly mother, and experienced the horror of our nephew’s sudden death in a car crash. Was I even emotionally healthy enough to take on a massive writing project? The answer: definitely not. But Donald has one of those persuasive personalities. He’s a finagler. Filled with big ideas, optimism, and enthusiasm, it’s hard not to get swept up in the tailwinds of possibility. And as the youngest sibling in the family, it’s hard for me to say no. Before I could fully comprehend what I was getting myself into, I was typing the first chapter of what would become  Where We Land: A Pilot’s Reflections at Altitude , a memoir of flight and a humorous look at the underbelly of the aviation industry. I had no ...

Songs have undeniable power. Though we can hear the same song hundreds of times, magic can travel through the lyrics hitting us with new meaning. The songs don’t change, but people do. I think the same can be said for stories. Words written on the page stay the same, but our life experiences shape and mold our responses to them.  Musicals, which combine the power of song and story, create an alchemy of emotions that can penetrate deep into the soul.  My family recently saw The Wiz performed on a professional stage. For those not familiar, The Wiz is a retelling of L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz , but with a soulful twist in the context of African American culture. The main characters are easily recognized by fans of the original 1939 movie, but the songs are a combination of R&B, funk, gospel, and disco.  In both productions, Dorothy’s deepest desire is to be home. And truly, is there a deeper desire in all of humanity? But for most of us, home is not so e...