"What is this “news” that is trumpeted each day? Are the pine trees listening to it? The tree swallows? The boulders that we dug up?"
Thanks Baron for this reminder. How embarrassing how often I forget. A beautiful essay and lovely to imagine you and Janet revisiting that sacred space. Thanks for sharing.
Your essays always stir me, Baron, but never more than this one. I write from s similar cabin, though it’s just a retrest, not a dwelling. We pass through Mercer on our way here, and I always think of you… and Wes McNair.
I applaud, Baron————you have stayed so in line with the Baron I met in Cambridge a hundred years ago. The terrible irony with these platforms is that I had to apply for a code to be emailed to me before I could enter these few rustic words of assent.
I recently took a virtual “tour” (courtesy of some real estate company) of a house in which I grew up from age three to eleven. How odd it was trying to recognize spaces once so familiar 75 years ago and now so changed — nostalgia and grief together. Passing Baron’s house now in Vermont — it’s just sadness.
"What is this “news” that is trumpeted each day? Are the pine trees listening to it? The tree swallows? The boulders that we dug up?"
Thanks Baron for this reminder. How embarrassing how often I forget. A beautiful essay and lovely to imagine you and Janet revisiting that sacred space. Thanks for sharing.
Your essays always stir me, Baron, but never more than this one. I write from s similar cabin, though it’s just a retrest, not a dwelling. We pass through Mercer on our way here, and I always think of you… and Wes McNair.
I applaud, Baron————you have stayed so in line with the Baron I met in Cambridge a hundred years ago. The terrible irony with these platforms is that I had to apply for a code to be emailed to me before I could enter these few rustic words of assent.
Sven
Beautiful
Thank you.
Bittersweet. Longing. It’s difficult to return to so much meaning and truth.
I recently took a virtual “tour” (courtesy of some real estate company) of a house in which I grew up from age three to eleven. How odd it was trying to recognize spaces once so familiar 75 years ago and now so changed — nostalgia and grief together. Passing Baron’s house now in Vermont — it’s just sadness.
Really beautiful painting in words.
“Give you delusions of grandeur and evil eye
Give you the idea that you’re too good to die
Then they bury you from your head to your feet
From the disease of conceit”—B Dylan