On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

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IMG_20140614_144537022Simple, he tells me. I don’t make plans. Let’s plant something in the yard. What do you want to grow?

My head is filled with camping trips, beach runs, climbing Camel’s Hump. Why do the days feel longer when they’re actually getting shorter? Why do the high clouds in the blue sky make me sad? Why does no one ever say, “We’ll have a winter to remember!”

You’ve got apples, he says, pointing at little fists of green in the trees. What do you want for dinner? He stands in the glow of the charcoal flame and the smell takes me back to diving for pennies in the above ground swimming pool we had as kids, my mother’s marigolds, badminton wars with my brother, and the low murmur of my father’s baseball game on the radio as he sat after dinner smoking on the porch.

The ginger-haired gentleman feeds me creamy red potatoes, silky stalks of asparagus, fat steaks. Sticky marshmallow and bitter chocolate, the sweet-salt crunch of graham crackers. It’s all there.