Farming/Nature
Behold the Lowly Earthworm
|
Our back yard wasn’t much to look at growing up. I attribute that to being raised with a whole bunch of brothers which necessitated a state of constant upheaval out our back stoop.
The Suffield Observer (https://thesuffieldobserver.com/author/abby-wolcott/page/10/)
Our back yard wasn’t much to look at growing up. I attribute that to being raised with a whole bunch of brothers which necessitated a state of constant upheaval out our back stoop.
Libby grew up in Windsor, the youngest of five children. She had an idyllic childhood scouring the woods for hours, building snow forts, catching minnows and returning home before dark.
I have a friend who, on occasion, refers to me as a troglodyte.
Knees quaking, I recited that famous first line, “I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree” penned by Joyce Kilmer and delivered at an Arbor Day school assembly some five decades ago.
The cold and dark New England mornings make it challenging to spring out of bed.
A family of mice have taken up residence in my potholder drawer, no doubt as a result of my lackadaisical housekeeping and drafty old hovel that I call home.
It’s the most wonderful time of year. My synapses are firing overtime, not at the prospect of gifts to be bought and fruitcakes to be baked.
When we were growing up, on a blustery November morning, my dad loaded all of us kids up in the car to go visit Raisbeck’s turkey farm on the west side of town.
As the days get shorter, I need to get psychologically prepared to say goodbye to some of my animal companions.
I come from a long line of insomniacs. Growing up, after tossing and turning for hours, my dad would make at least one nightly pilgrimage into the kitchen in search of a little snack to help him sleep.