The spring before my father died, Josh and I took him back to his family farm site in Worcester for Father’s Day. Nothing left of the house and barns but the cellar holes. My dad was in his mid-eighties and the weather was as well. We could only drive so close to the farm and…
Category: Family
Ancestral Memory
The mud has been unusually deep this year: does that seem a bit metaphoric? It is, but it is also the truth. Vermont, statistically, has more dirt roads than paved. My hand always goes up to keep my dirt road, but it is a long season. At some point, perhaps when we are all so…
Opportunity Arrives In Disguise
I’m the person that doesn’t read the manuals. It isn’t that I don’t understand the value in doing so: I just don’t do it. I’d like to tell you that the reason is because I enjoy the process of figuring things out for myself, but the truth is that I hate reading manuals more than…
Only One Way to Speak
My father died Saturday. I find myself beginning to write, “passed on” and then stopping. At first I think it is because it is easier for me to hear, rather than the word “died,” but in thinking about it more, I believe people use that phrase because it is easier for others to hear. One…