Category Archives: Gong Girls

Doing All the Things

IMG_0591

“You should write about this in your next column,” my nine-year-old daughter said.

She was huddled together with her three sisters and our two neighbors, attempting to walk in lockstep across our backyard while cupping their hands to shield a monarch butterfly from the wind whipping through our little valley. They’d discovered the monarch minutes earlier, clinging to a blade of grass in the field. It kept trying – and failing – to fly; whether it was newly hatched or had a problem with its wings, we weren’t sure. The huddle of monarch rescuers was attempting to get the butterfly onto a flowering plant by our front door, where it would be more protected from the wind.

It was a lovely scenario, to be sure: an example of communal compassion. But here’s what really struck me: My daughter was suggesting that I write about it. My daughter, who next month will enter double-digits when she turns ten, is now reading my columns and offering feedback.

It’s just another example of how we’ve moved up to the next stage of childrearing.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

 

My Interview for “The Story Matters”

This morning — after I fed the poultry — I had the pleasure of taping an interview with Len Rowell for his program on Middlebury Community Television, “The Story Matters.” We talked about libraries, children, storytelling — the good things of life. If you’d like to watch, here it is! (And if not, you’re in good company: My own children, whom you’d THINK would be a little excited that their mother was on TV, have absolutely no interest. Nada. Zilch. My little humblers.)

Change and the Library

reading, glasses, atop, pages, open, dictionary, book

“Is that a new cash register?” my eight-year-old daughter asked the woman behind the counter at Otter Creek Bakery last week.

I do take my daughters to the bakery on a semi-regular basis because “they” need treats — but I don’t take them so often that I’d expect them to notice a different cash register.

The woman behind the counter seemed as surprised as I was when she answered, “Why, yes….Yes, it is!”

My daughter threw her hands in the air and turned to me. “See! Everything in town is changing and getting more modern!”

Change is hard for kids, who tend to crave routine and predictability. But my daughter was right: By any measure, the past year has brought a dizzying array of changes to Middlebury, especially from a kid’s eye view.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

Apples, Fall, and the Future

IMG_0568

 My husband arrived home one evening during the first week in September after a stop at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op. He raised his arm in triumph, clutching the handle of a small brown paper bag filled with Macintosh apples and bearing the stamp of Shoreham’s Champlain Orchards.

“Vermont apples are back!” he announced joyfully.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

The Chick Stays in the Picture

IMG_0484

Apology in advance: This is another column about poultry.

I promise that “Faith in Vermont” will not begin focusing entirely on chickens and ducks. Still, the truth is that I’m learning a great deal about life, love, death, and motherhood from the silly, smelly, feathered fowl who share our land.

In my last column, I wrote about losing two of our chickens to a fox. A couple of weeks later, in what seemed like poetic justice, one of our broody hens hatched out a new chick.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

Death Comes to the Coop

IMG_0392

When the first chicken disappeared, it wasn’t a big deal.

She’d been one of eleven chickens – ten hens and a rooster – of indeterminate age, passed on to us by friends. We’d always considered this our “starter flock,” and planned to add fresh chicks in the spring.

We live in a predator-rich area, so every night we lock our chickens into a sturdy coop behind an electrified wire fence. But because we held these chickens loosely, and because it seemed to go against their nature and purpose to keep them confined to a 400-square-foot yard, we let them free range during the daylight hours.

This system worked beautifully for about two months, until the night I counted the chickens that’d come home to roost and came up one short.

She was a black bantam hen, one of three black bantys who scuttled nervously around Elvis the rooster all day long, like a jittery teenage fan club. After she’d been gone for two days, we declared her “missing, presumed dead.” My daughters were a little wistful, but not for long. Nobody had been particularly attached to this hen, whose personality was all humble subservience to her mate. We’d never even given her a name; in order to have something to write on her rock-tombstone in our animal cemetery (which joined the memorials of three deceased tadpoles), my daughters named her “Dianne” posthumously.

Because we’d never found a body – not even a feather – Dianne’s disappearance was shrouded in mystery. Lack of a body indicated that a hawk or a fox was the likely predator. We kept our eyes open, kept the chickens confined to their run for a couple of days, and then assumed that the threat had passed. Some days, we even joked that Dianne had gotten sick of following Elvis around and faked her own death; she was probably living a life of adventure in the treetops, or lounging on Palm Beach.

Then, a week later, Henrietta disappeared.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

Through My Children’s Eyes

At the beginning of the summer, our entire family attended my 20th college reunion.

I’m not a reunion person; I spent my first 15 years of adulthood moving frequently enough to rid me of whatever nostalgia I might be tempted to nurture – which I suspect wasn’t much to begin with. But this was my 20th reunion, it was only about two hours away, friends exerted pressure, and my daughters had begun expressing interest in my alma mater. So, late one spring evening, I found myself registering online for my reunion, paying an exorbitant amount to house six people on three dorm-room beds.

My alma mater is Williams College, a small liberal arts school nestled among the Berkshire Mountains in the northwestern corner of Massachusetts, just over the Vermont border from Bennington. It bears a striking similarity in both size and location to Middlebury College, which explains one particular moment from the reunion weekend.

One of the highlights of the reunion was not only the chance to reconnect with old friends, but observing our children become friends as well – as if to confirm that we’d chosen our cronies well two decades prior. On the final evening of reunion weekend, as our children romped together on the green grass of a quad surrounded by pillared academic buildings and, beyond them, the rolling slopes of the Berkshires, my friends waxed nostalgic about the setting.

Isn’t it wonderful, they said, to come to a place where our children can just run free and we don’t have to worry about them? And: Look at that view! Isn’t it just beautiful here?

 Click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.