Keeping your community covered. We're committed to producing high-quality, fact-based news and information that gives you the facts in this community we call home. If our work has helped you stay informed, take action, or feel more connected to Windham County – please give now to help us reach our goal of raising $150,000 by December 31st.
Keeping your community covered. We're committed to producing high-quality, fact-based news and information that gives you the facts in this community we call home. If our work has helped you stay informed, take action, or feel more connected to Windham County – please give now to help us reach our goal of raising $150,000 by December 31st.
Beware of the story that begins with “Back in my day.” When I was a child and an elder spoke those words, I felt confused. When exactly was that day? I looked around in search of it and couldn't find it.
“Back in my day” often introduced a story with a subtext. “Back in my day, I milked 100 cows, slopped the pigs, and stacked a cord of wood before I walked 10 miles to school in six feet of snow.” Subtext: “Toughen up, kid.”
These stories gave me a skeptical view of history and aging. I resolved to walk into the woods, lie down, and die if I lived to be so old that the words “back in my day” ever spewed from my lips.
* * *...
It must be an epidemic. Google “coping with holiday stress,” and you'll find enough advice from psychologists, life coaches, health clinics, etiquette mavens, and other “experts” to keep you in reading material for all the holidays of your life. My cursory research has revealed that the experts have boarded...
When I moved to Vermont in December of 1999, I felt a twinge of trepidation. Although I find beauty in every season, I love the big bloom of summer best: the heat and light and wide open windows and the whirr of ceiling fans. I like sweating in the...
Last winter, far away from my Vermont home, I stumbled into a danger zone. It wasn't comparable to inadvertently crossing the border from Iraq to Iran. All I did was accept a gracious dinner invitation from casual acquaintances. How could I have imagined that when the door opened, I'd need a flak jacket? The table was set for eight in the cavernous kitchen. The center island - topped with glistening black marble - rivalled my whole kitchen for square footage.
Scene: Checkout line at Fresh Market, Pinehurst, N.C., 2004. Three shoppers in front of me, mountains of groceries in their carts. I'm silently reciting the mantra once bestowed upon me by a passionate chef. “Patience,” he said, “is the secret to a good clam dip.” It's the secret to good roux, good bread, and many things unrelated to culinary skills. When I finally plop my canvas bags and assorted fruits and vegetables on the conveyor belt, the man behind me...
Sunday morning I'm driving home from an early milk run to the dairy. A shiny black Honda with Jersey plates is parked at the bottom of my lane, tucked neatly out of the way of traffic. The car is unoccupied. Uh-oh. More lost souls from away. Or their car died. It's likely the former. It isn't unusual to find befuddled flatlanders on my doorstep or wandering around my barn, directed here by a GPS. They have ignored the small green-and-white...
