Kate Welshofer Was Here

I have a little book filled with a large supply of tiny things to write about. It’s been a great big help as the clock races to the start of a new semester, my first as a teacher. It’s all a little bit stressful. 642 Tiny Things to Write About is the work of the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. The Grotto, as it’s also known, is described as a workspace for professional writers. 56 of them contributed ideas to the little square book. The foreword is written by a journalist and author named Po Bronson.

Scrolling recently, I came upon a post featuring an article from a local newspaper and subsequently glanced at the comments. (I know. I recognize that’s where I went wrong straight away.) Anyway, one comment, in particular, caught my eye. It said something to the effect of: “Can someone summarize this for me? I’m not going to pay to read it!” “Me either,” someone else replied. Another person agreed, and then another.

“The cadavers are pre-cut,” is not a sentence I expected to hear in my lifetime, but once I heard it, that was it. I know I’ll never forget it. My husband and I were standing in a gleaming white hallway of Albert Einstein College of Medicine, a leafy, educational enclave situated in the Bronx.

By the time you read this, the 2026 edition of the Silver Lake Experience will have passed; three days of arts, education, entertainment, and community all centered in the historic Silver Lake Institute and Camp Asbury area; the lake itself providing a shimmering backdrop. Held every two years, I was honored to be asked to participate last time around and grateful to be invited back.

August always feels like standing on a diving board; not at the end, necessarily, more like the top of the ladder. You can’t really remember the climb. It’s higher than you thought. There’s a vague idea of what’s coming, but you can’t actually see what you’re getting yourself into. Climbing down really isn’t an option. I mean, you’re up there already; and so you make your way forward, ever forward: maybe running, maybe carefully creeping to the edge.

I bought an actual physical photo album for the first time in, well, probably ever. I do have a bunch of albums already, old ones my mom bought me; all filled with memories from childhood, high school, college. You know, the old days when we didn’t always have cameras in our pockets, didn’t think about our “angles” or aesthetics; back when our “camera rolls” were actual film we took to get developed, debating whether to roll the dice on “doubles”.

There are times I find that life has the grace to meet us where we are, allowing for growth in a way that feels like being scooped up and gently placed in a soft, new circumstance. There are other times it simply shoves us into the deep end, forcing us to adapt; sink or swim. Whether we’re left serene or sputtering, the result is typically some version of, “That wasn’t so bad” or “I should have done that sooner.” This is how I feel about going to yoga.

I should probably start keeping track of the columns that emerge from deep dives into mundane things that pique my curiosity for one reason or another. When and if I do, I can add that task in itself to the list along with this week’s submission. So, what is it this time? Traffic lights. Photo by Jim Romero on Unsplash I wanted to know their history, how long they’d been around, when we started using them.

I started work on this week’s column the way I started work on this same column last year: I looked back at my own history, reviewing what I wrote the year before and the year before that. Both columns centered on what it means to celebrate Independence Day in the United States these days. Can we, I wondered, genuinely say our nation stands for freedom and justice for all? (Big emphasis on “all.”) Is America really the land of the free? Was it ever?

This one goes out to the graduates. Maybe not now, but when they get a minute. I know they’re busy now, managing and juggling a lot of lasts, making a whole bunch of memories, bringing tears to the eyes of a lot of family, friends, and teachers who are all very proud of them. This is for later — after all the photos are taken, the pomp and circumstance fades, and the grad parties serve their last slices of cake.