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Archive - Staff Blog
If you stopped by my house Thanksgiving Day, you might have noticed something unusual about our living room. That morning, we turned the furniture around backward, facing a corner that currently features a weight bench, an abandoned cat toy and a few dust bunnies.
After wringing much of the goodness out of my old vehicle over the course of seven-plus years, we recently invested in a new set of wheels. My wish-list going into the substantial purchase: that it be an American vehicle with a good Consumer Reports ranking and safety record; have enough cargo space for dump/recycling runs; and that it be capable of towing my late father’s small, barely seaworthy boat that I refuse to junk and use occasionally for fishing jaunts on Bristol Pond.
Watch as five-year-old Bjorn Coburn of Cornwall takes note of the construction along Route 30 and in Middlebury, and uses what he picks up to revitalize his own backyard.
Bjorn to Pave from Addison Independent on Vimeo.
I don’t spend all that much time reading and writing comments on newspaper websites, but make a few exceptions for boston.com baseball coverage, Charlie Pierce blogs and Chad Finn columns; for Burlington Free Press articles on high school field hockey and football; and, only rarely, for an occasional Entertainment Weekly article at ewonline.com. In case anyone else out there reads the same stuff, I don’t mind outing myself as vermontk (boston.com) or Vermont K (BFP).
There are plenty of reasons to see through the glass darkly in late November. You don’t need me to remind you what they are.
But there are also good reasons why it’s become an American tradition to say thanks amid the gathering darkness.
On this holiday, I’m grateful for a few small-time heroes.
I call them “small-time” not because their heroism is petty or unworthy. It’s just that their kind of everyday valor goes largely unnoticed.
I got to thinking about that when I attended a wedding at the Waybury Inn this past summer.
Last Saturday night, I decided to move a full-size mattress — and box spring — up a flight of stairs in a narrow hallway. Alone.
Why do I do these things? Where was the voice of reason saying, “Many hands make light work?"
It was being drowned out by the voice of optimism, which kept shouting, “You can do this! Probably!”
My husband and daughter were gone for the evening, and I thought I would surprise her by moving out her no-longer-wanted single bunk beds and moving in the double bed some friends had brought over earlier that day.
December 31st, 1969
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