This Christmas will mark the 18th year that I have been forcing my kids to make homemade gifts for each other.
I have a complicated relationship with trees. To me, a big, old, wind-toppled maple tree is both a heartbreaking sight as well as a wonderful opportunity to rake in some free cord wood for the woodstove.
Of all the tall tales I have told my children, the one I feel least guilty about is my claim to have an intuitive expertise in sunsets.
Roundabout late August when I am reminded again of our unreasonably short summers, I usually console myself with the petty comparison that the Northeast Kingdom folks have difficulty even growing tomatoes.
I write today about nothing less than fanatical gardening excess.
I recently saw a movie called “A Man Called Otto.” It was a shamelessly sentimental film with a predictable storyline, and it reduced me to a blubbering baby.
In Vermont it’s advisable to hold your tongue about cold winters until you’ve weathered at least a few good pipe freezings.
If there is a month with a bit of baggage here in Vermont it has to be November.
If ever there have been events to sober the pen of a superficial storyteller however, it would be the tragic developments in Ukraine these past few weeks.