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On The Nearby Hill
They buried an old man today in the cemetery up on the hill. He was in his nineties, and from a distance it looked like about two dozen mourners attended the graveside services. I didn’t know the man, though his family name is prominent in these parts. And now he has gone on from this life, away from those who knew and loved him, and someday he will pass into that place where unvisited memories go. He lived, and he mattered, and now he is gathered to his people. This winter seems harsher than any of the threescore-plus ones I’ve known, and it has only begun. The land lies dormant…
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Returning Home
Sunday evening, a flicker landed in the snow outside the door. He drilled down like a sewing machine in search of his meal, solitary in the white yard, looking around as he did his work He must have seen me taking photos through the window, because the flicker flew over to the weeping willow tree and perched on the trunk for several minutes, looking fat and sleek, before he departed for the deeper woods. When I returned home last night, I was so glad to see Jinx and he was so glad to see me, we danced around each other. He barked and whined and did his best to tell…
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To Sit, To Dwell
I can still see her sitting there. Unless the day was quite cold, my grandmother did a fair share of her daily work sitting in the battered rocking chair on her front porch. Many’s the time I’ve seen her with a pan of peas or beans on her lap, her gnarled fingers selecting and snapping and dropping. Or with a garment that needed mending, her gray head bent over the fabric as she guided the needle through its proper places. Or with her Reader’s Digest Condensed Bible with its worn, pillowed green cover, open on her aproned lap, bookmarked with newspaper clippings (mostly obituaries) and leaves and pressed wildflowers. But…