After he was diagnosed with cancer, we built him a small cabin under a canopy of firs, breathed a little easier when we saw his truck come rumbling down the road. One year he was too sick to make the trip—his daughter with big hair and glittery nails came instead to gather his few belongings, leaving the wood stove and cook pots for his hunting friends.

After he died, his son came each fall, sometimes bringing a friend or two. With them came fresh-caught tuna, elk steaks, razor clams—small offerings of friendship and appreciation for the privilege of hunting on our land. In return we offered pears and apples, bags of plums and grapes, bouquets of chrysanthemums to take home to their families.

Once a hunter brought his young wife, a beautiful woman my age, a teacher like myself, who had suffered a stroke. She was paralyzed and mute, confined to a wheelchair, needing constant care. I was nervous to meet her, uncertain of what to say, embarrassed by my health and mobility. “She laughs at my jokes,” her husband said, “and talks with her eyes. At least say hello. We won’t stay long.”

With effort she offered her hand in greeting, followed the conversation with her eyes. Her husband gently smoothed her hair, touched her face, rubbed her shoulders and back, always held her hand. He doted on this lovely woman, included her in all topics, even teasing her on occasion. She would nod, eyes sparkling. I was humbled and inspired by her courage, her strength, her grace. They stayed the night in the cabin. A few months later, she died.

He returned to hunt for several more seasons, along with others, but not once since Herman’s first visit was a buck ever bagged, nor a turkey. Perhaps they came for the solitude of the woods and fields, the easy conversations around a bonfire, the laughter.

It’s now been years since hunters walked our land.  Herman’s woodland ornament has long been buried in the duff under a pine, the bones scattered by animals, the feathers by wind. Sometimes we sit in his cabin, warmed by a fire and the memories of the stories, the gifts, her hand offered in friendship.

Nine Lives

by Claire Kahane

. “An engaging memoir of life lived to its fullest...” — Kirkus Reviews, The Magazine, October 1, 2025 In this riveting memoir, Claire Kahane unveils her intimate self-transformations over the course of nine decades. Born in the Great Depression to Jewish immigrants and determined to prove herself a free spirit in a male dominated world, Kahane went on the road, hitchhiking her way into and out of risky adventures and romantic affairs. But what starts out as a "road book" takes a different turn in midlife. In scenes dramatically illustrating the growing influence of psychoanalysis and feminism, she becomes a feminist professor, mother and wife, living out the contradictions she is teaching in the classroom. In later life her story changes tracks again when a visit to Auschwitz compels her to confront her own family history of Holocaust loss and renewal. The memoir ends with a surprising new twist that opens to a hopeful future. “Claire Kahane has written a memoir for our times: an account of a life spent in pursuit of lived experience long before it was permissible for women like Kahane to do just that. Rich and lively, vivid and bold, Nine Lives is bound to reach a wide and responsive readership.” —Vivian Gornick, essayist, critic, and author of numerous memoirs, including Fierce Attachments, The Odd Woman and the City, and Unfinished Business: Notes of a Chronic Re-reader Available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and your local independent bookstore. A limited number of signed copies are available from Book Passage, Corte Madera, CA.

Find this and more in ArtsMart