My first cousin Nathaniel and I used to spend every waking hour together in the summertime. Our mornings were at the Chilmark Community Center...
My father and I went to the Turkish baths in the East Village of Manhattan this past February, our first time together in a city that has influenced...
stinging nettle
I have had more failures and mishaps learning to farm than most. My tendency to be cheap and, at times, careless has proven costly more often than...
The fisherman were out at the Mill Pond in West Tisbury this past Sunday in search of trout, giving hope that this winter’s curtain call will soon be...
Not too long ago, though not recent enough that I can remember what year it was, I lived in a cabin on my cousin’s land. During construction a giant...
A garden which grows true to its own laws is not a wilderness, yet not entirely artificial either. — From A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander.
Dirty Joe was a crow and a friend of my father’s when he was a child. When my father was nine years old he took an egg from a crow’s nest, hatched it...
The lamb had been tethered in our yard for days in advance of Candice’s visit, peacefully keeping our grass down. A southerly breeze carried the...
In his essay, Movable Feast, Henry Beetle Hough writes: “People talk of the good old days on the Vineyard — the nineties, when croquet and bicycles...

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