Archive - Staff Blog
May 23rd, 2014
Rowing the Tulip Boat
What’s more here than now!
My neighbor’s bed of tulips,
rows crowded into rows.
Not Elizabeth’s rainbow
bilge, gas and oil between
her rowboat’s struts.
Not a serrated knife’s leftover
A couple of weeks ago, our phone rang right after dinner. On the other end was a voice belonging to a 7-year-old boy we know.
"I was wondering if you could come to my baseball game this Friday?" he asked.
He'd recently started practicing with our town's Little League baseball team, the Middlebury Meteors. That Friday they'd be playing their first game, against the Cornwall Cougars.
MIDDLEBURY — The Middlebury College men’s tennis team will make its 13th consecutive trip to the NCAA Division III tournament and will host a regional from this Thursday to Saturday.
The Panthers won the 2002 and 2010 titles and have reached the NCAA semifinal round seven of the past 11 seasons.
I read somewhere that the best way to tell a person’s true age is to look at their hands. Thanks to the intersection of our vanity with innovations in technology and medicine, it’s now possible to camouflage signs of age in the body, face, hair, and teeth. But as far as I know, not much can be done about wrinkled, mottled, vein—y hands.
Hands may just be the real Picture of Dorian Grey.
Photo by Fiona Gong
Last month, we loaded our four daughters into the minivan on a Sunday afternoon and drove to Duclos & Thompson Farm in Weybridge to see the new lambs and piglets.
In two weeks, my parents will move to Vermont from the town in Northern Virginia where I grew up, their home for 37 years.
More on that later; for today all you need to know is their new front door in Vermont needs work. Everyone – the real estate agent, the sellers, the contractors they consulted – agreed that the door should be repainted or replaced, and that the doorstep needs to be repaired.
The snow bursts our spring closed.
Crocus used to be a word for purple
spring. We’re used to calling flowers
this time of year, door stoppers.
Opening a door so we can watch
our steps. And not be still March-
shoveling. Every year we want to forget
spring arrives at the back door.
Where we lean our shovels.
Where there’s nearby bursting.
And not the snow budding.
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