I visited John, like I had a thousand times before, on a sunny afternoon late on a blue-sky day.
As soon as the ground can be worked, goes the adage for planting certain early season crops. This past winter was as cold as any in recent years.
The night my mother had died I slept on the lawn in a sleeping bag under the stars. I woke the next day and felt the same emptiness.
I was 15 minutes late to the Allen Farm this morning. It was cold and getting out of bed felt like torture.
“A man’s kitchen is a reflection of himself,” the great French chef Alain Chapel confidently reflected as he looked upon his kitchen.
“I hope you got a lot of money, ’cause this ain’t gonna be cheap,” Walter barked at me as I pulled myself into the cab of his well-used tow truck.
I always liked spending time with my father when I was young, the bench seat in the red Dodge Ram always felt so big and comfortable.
I miss having goats on the farm. As annoying as it was to wake up each morning to milk, it was a labor of love.
I am eight years old. My father, my brother Andrew and I board a large fishing boat in Menemsha. We have packed sandwiches and bananas for lunch.