Alison Garwood Jones

We work for society

Originally published in October 2016 in Blog

“We work for society.” This is how my dad, Trevor Garwood-Jones (1928-2011), described an architect’s responsibilities to the communities they build in. Buildings house our existing emotions, but also create new ones — some drab, some inspired depending on the quality of the design. Beauty was key, in Trevor’s mind, to building empathy and a sense […]

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Rabbit remembered

Originally published in March 2014 in Blog

The bodies are buried. The house is sold. And the dust has settled. But not for you. You keep turning the soil.   You’re digging for worms, not coins, And sinking further into the soil yourself. But you’re a writer, you said, Can’t you see this is material?   At your insistence, I took ownership of […]

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Home

Originally published in December 2013 in Blog

After you lose your parents, You start to wonder if your family ever existed. That feeling of being part of a team alters, Then disintegrates over time. New alliances form. Continents and decades are crossed in a valiant search for that next Home. Siblings become more like old classmates, People you used to know because […]

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What’s your name?

Originally published in December 2013 in Blog

Having an unusual name is like hitting the jackpot from a search engine standpoint. There are plenty of Alison Joneses in the world, and even more when you throw in the alternate spellings of Allison/Allyson/Alyson/Alisson. But Google suggests that I am the only Alison Garwood-Jones. I went to high school with an Alison Jones, a […]

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Remains of the day

Originally published in May 2013 in Blog

I got a lot of moving feedback the first time I wrote about my mother, Catherine, in The Long Goodbye, published three years ago on this blog. After she died last Christmas, I expanded on the story of our relationship and turned it into a magazine piece for Glow Magazine. It’s in the May issue, on newsstands […]

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Down came the snow

Originally published in January 2013 in Blog

When her emotions were reeling And her writing hand couldn’t keep up — Or even find an entry point on the page — She read obsessively. Indiscriminately. And, as Dylan Thomas liked to say, With her eyes hanging out.

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Far and away

Originally published in October 2012 in Blog

y last big trip was two years ago. I did Holland, Germany, Austria and Hungry with my 82-year-old dad. We stayed in a hotel in Amsterdam, just down the street from Anne Frank’s hideout. I listened to the same church bell Anne used to mark time. I even recorded the tolling on my iPhone. In […]

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Life support

Originally published in July 2012 in Blog

coined this saying in my twenties, and believed it through that entire decade of my life. Back then, men my age reacted to me in two ways: sexual heat or professional competitiveness, but usually they offered the package deal. Keeping an eye firmly planted on me (and my rotating outfits), they monitored the pace of […]

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Last day

Originally published in June 2011 in Blog

Because I find writing about my dad more fun than crying. Happy Father’s Day, Papa Jones     Our Mt. Rushmore, TGJ (©AGJ) My dad was still hanging in the air inside his home a few hours after he died (it’s now been 12 weeks). I took note of his presence before the march of […]

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The big reveal

Originally published in May 2011 in Blog

How would you feel if genome analysis revealed you were predisposed to “early sudden death” from vascular disease? Less hungry for chips? Determined to blow all your savings in Vegas and have as much sex as the day is long? And what if a message in your inbox from a lab in sunny California coldly […]

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