Archive - Staff Blog
May 5th, 2016
On the Lift
There’s not a better place
on earth than sitting here
with Bill McKibben
in County Tire’s waiting room.
Our cars hoisted on two
lifts. Two men behind
the glass, swapping out
our sets of pray this winter’s-
over-tires. Balancing the others
with weights found
on fishing lines, the balanced
As we prepare to leave Berkeley, California and return home to Vermont, here are some Berkeley stories from the past five months of our family’s sabbatical:
It’s Winter Again
Gratitude to you, young woman,
sliding your squeegee across the glass,
wiping its blade dry again.
Praise for the care you’re taking
applying yourself side to side.
Inside the circle, the track
of our field house. We both find
ourselves inside, April surprising
the fields. It’s snowing!
More than the redwings like,
It’s late afternoon, and I’m looking east through the big picture windows of my favorite café in Berkeley, California. I’m used to seeing the Green Mountains when I look east, but today I see the Berkeley Hills.
When friends and family from Vermont ask how we’re doing during our five-month sabbatical in Berkeley, California, I usually answer, “It’s been a good experience. But it’s not home.”
The funny thing is, it was home.
Husband: I was thinking we could go to Berkeley for the second half of my sabbatical. We have family and friends there, and I could do research in my old department at UC Berkeley.
Me: Sure, that makes sense.
Husband: And we’d enroll the girls in school in Berkeley for the spring?
Me: Oh no, I’ll just homeschool them while we’re out there.
Given the nature of the last two Addison Independent community calendar events I attended, and one I will be attending this weekend, the theme of this post will be “The Theatah.” (In my head, I pronounce it in the snooty, British aristocrat way because that’s how I’ve always tended to think of the theater: highbrow, a bit pretentious, and not something meant for those of us who are perfectly happy to stay home and watch Netflix.)
Better than the return
of the Redwing Blackbirds
Bob says, jogging by me,
this March morning.
In his Khaki shorts.
First green shoots
inching up in the road’s
ditch. Two deer across
Spark’s field, browsing
thawing hay grass, their breath
visible as glass.
Better in the sense
he means we’re here
to say hello, me
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