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Grain run

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H.N. Williams, Dorset, Vermont

Here is where you’ll find me once a week, early in the morning, to stock up on organic grain for my turkeys, chickens, sheep, goats, ducks, horses & bunny.  Inside this fine establishment, a jury of gentlemen are assembled with coffees and donuts, cordial greetings and conversation ranging from the price of gas to whether you should fib when your wife asks you if “this dress makes me look fat.”  Sometimes I am the consult on certain topics, and so I weigh my words carefully in response to the chat-du-jour.

It’s out of my way, but they take great care of me here.  I’m grateful to live in a part of the world where you can pick up a car full of chow for your livestock and a freshly baked scone-to-go, get the bottom line on politics and the weather, and lean on the counter to share a farmyard story or two.

My family and I are grieving a recent loss.  My youngest brother.  A frequent compliment/condolence was that he lived a hundred years in his 50. He was the type of guy that had a thousand friends in the community.  He was just such a fella that took the time to chat.  They jokingly called him “the Professor” in his town, at his job, because of his knack for throwing himself into lectures and debates with his neighbors and co-workers, but finishing always with a joke and a smile.  I hadn’t recognized the value, the importance of my weekly grain-run ritual, spending time with this micro-community, until I sat down to write and fell to thinking about Larry….

I’m not sure how long I’ll be feeling so reflective, friends, so bear with me.  I’ve got a lot of blessings to count.

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