Winter, 1978

Snow angled itself in the corners of each window.  Frost crept across the panes.  The driveway filled with drifts three or four feet high.  The doors were nearly frozen shut.

We dressed in layers and hurried to the barn.    

We rushed from stall to stall, using screwdrivers to chip away the layer of ice in the red water buckets hanging inside the cows’ stalls.  The horses stamped their feet and blew frosty breath through their noses.  The chickens huddled up close.  There was no time to scratch the back of the pigs; no time to pet the cats.  We were cold.  We hurried back inside.

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House of Straw

“You make a list of your must-haves,” I said to my husband the other day, referring to what each of us wanted to have in our future house. “And I’ll make mine.”

An hour later, he sent me an email. Number one on his list: Plenty of land to contemplate life.

* * * 

The doorbell rang in the middle of the day last week. It was my neighbor. “Do you want some grapefruit?” She held up a bulging plastic grocery bag. My aunt sent it to us for Christmas and we don’t eat it.”

We chatted for a bit and she made to leave. Then she turned back. “Hey, are you having trouble with…”

She looked behind her. She leaned in towards me. She lowered her voice. “…dog doo on your lawn?”

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