About J. S. Anderson
J. S. Anderson lives and writes in Longview, Washington. Born in California with no memory of it, and raised in Potlatch, Idaho, home to a white pine lumber mill, a river, woods and fields with arrowheads, and countless places to explore and bicycle and hide.
Born to Rev. Joe, a Presbyterian minister who could not sing aloud and whose own music was always and frequently poetry, and of Florence, whose music was voice and piano, her flowers and the concert association.
Born poor but never in poverty.
Weaned on chores before play, jobs done right or done over, and dishpans full of popcorn and apples at night. Weaned onto and then from the piano, for which he had long fingers but no native talent. Weaned on but never from an enduring appreciation of music and beauty and good food.
Raised on tightly edited school reports prepared on his mother’s old Royal, the dawn of rock and roll, and the sudden, inexplicable death of a president so very distant until his murder. Raised before information was ubiquitous and the news so overwrought.
Grown to manhood with buoyant optimism and the civil rights movement, but also on the incomprehensible deaths of a Senator and a Dreamer of justice and equality, the interminable war in Vietnam to which he was a Conscientious Objector, and the Age of Aquarius. Grown to adulthood through a liberal arts education abandoned before complete, and seven years later the rigors of graduate school more fully appreciated. Grown profoundly by Sharon, a severely retarded, institutionalized fifteen year-old girl who germinated in him a satisfying career in healthcare—a far greater gift than the simple personal care he could provide her.
Delighted with two daughters, who are the best parts of him.
Matriculated, finally, from the challenges of profession to the knots of writing.
Happy in love.