I picked up a hitchhiker last Friday morning while driving down my extremely long dirt road. His name was Jay.
I had been growing food on a small plot in the corner of the farm for a couple of summers when my Aunt Marie told me she was ready to call it quits.
My grandfather was ninety-six years old when he died. He tripped, a bucket of fertilizer in one hand and a shovel in the other.
The farmer invited us inside his home to join his wife and cat. We sat on fold-out chairs around a fold-out aluminum table next to a wood stove.
Nicholas Freeling was born in London in 1927, known mostly for his series of crime novels that began after three weeks spent in a Dutch prison.
I lasted six months without a truck. Now I have two. One of them seems fit for travel off the Island. The other does not.
Thanksgiving when I was growing up always meant a different assortment of extended family members congregating at different homes.
Ethel Sherman, much loved for her sweet laugh and tart wit along with her jams, died on Sept 4. at age 91. A graveside service is Sunday.
Mrs. Sherman, who sold jams at the market, died on Sept. 4 at the age of 91. She and her husband Ralph mentored countless Island farmers.

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