Welcome to My Green Vermont
I was born in Barcelona, where I went to a school run by German nuns, studied solfeggio, and played the violin. When I was ten, my parents and I moved to Ecuador, where I had a number of exotic pets and strange adventures. Four years later, we landed in Birmingham, Alabama. None of us spoke English, and the strange adventures continued. (Many of these appear in My Green Vermont.)
Survived high school. Got B.A. in French and Biology, Ph.D. in Romance Languages (French and Spanish). Gave up the Church and the violin, got married, had two daughters, taught at a liberal arts college in Maryland. Also grew veggies, made bread, kept chickens, milked goats, and wrote for newspapers and magazines. I got bored with teaching, took up running, and went into higher ed administration. I was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), and learned to live in a totally different way.
I started My Green Vermont when we moved to that state. For ten years I lived with my spouse, three dogs, twelve hens, two goats, and assorted passing wildlife in a house on a hill, surrounded by fields and woods. In 2014, we moved to a cottage in a continuing care residential community near Lake Champlain. Gave up livestock and vegetable gardening in favor of wild birds, honeybees, a little red dog, and a gray cat.
My Green Vermont is a fertile compost pile made up of stories about the weirdness of growing up in three countries and three languages; portraits of beloved animals, both wild and domestic; and reflections on aging, being kind to the earth, and staying as calm as possible. I hope you will visit often, and add your own stories and reactions.
My Green Vermont
Latest Posts
Little Old Lady, Little Old Dog
Every glance in the mirror confirms it: I have definitely attained Little Old Lady status. Not that there is anything pejorative in the term: in the post-RBG era, Little Old
Tales from the Hive, Part 2
For weeks on end, the bees ignored me. Every afternoon I would walk to the community hive across from my house. Creeping slowly to the side of the hive, staying
Fledglings
What’s not to like about baby birds? Chirping and bouncing around like fluffy ping pong balls, they flock to the feeder with their dads and consume vast quantities of suet
Nuns in Prom Time
I am somewhat of an international authority on nuns, having been taught by German nuns in Barcelona, by Ecuadorian nuns in Quito, and by American nuns in Birmingham, Alabama. My
Candide to the Rescue
Another morning, another failure. Again I have neglected to do what I had resolved: to be present through my daily routines. Present while making tea, present while Bisou ate grass
Tales from the Hive, Part 1
This spring, I have apprenticed myself to the beekeepers in the retirement community where I live. Ignoring Thoreau’s advice to beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, the first
Of Foxes And Hedgehogs
Have you noticed how often the word “hobby” is preceded by “just a”? And the synonyms for “hobbyist”—dabbler, tinkerer, potterer—are all pejorative. Amateur, meaning a lover of something, is better,
To Flow Or Not To Flow
“If I died,” my mother used to say, “your father would be terribly sad. But he would not die. Without music, though, he wouldn’t last a week.” She was right.
My Green Vermont
Latest Posts
Little Old Lady, Little Old Dog
Every glance in the mirror confirms it: I have definitely attained Little Old Lady status. Not that there is anything pejorative in the term: in the post-RBG era, Little Old
Tales from the Hive, Part 2
For weeks on end, the bees ignored me. Every afternoon I would walk to the community hive across from my house. Creeping slowly to the side of the hive, staying
Fledglings
What’s not to like about baby birds? Chirping and bouncing around like fluffy ping pong balls, they flock to the feeder with their dads and consume vast quantities of suet
Nuns in Prom Time
I am somewhat of an international authority on nuns, having been taught by German nuns in Barcelona, by Ecuadorian nuns in Quito, and by American nuns in Birmingham, Alabama. My
Candide to the Rescue
Another morning, another failure. Again I have neglected to do what I had resolved: to be present through my daily routines. Present while making tea, present while Bisou ate grass
Tales from the Hive, Part 1
This spring, I have apprenticed myself to the beekeepers in the retirement community where I live. Ignoring Thoreau’s advice to beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, the first
Of Foxes And Hedgehogs
Have you noticed how often the word “hobby” is preceded by “just a”? And the synonyms for “hobbyist”—dabbler, tinkerer, potterer—are all pejorative. Amateur, meaning a lover of something, is better,
To Flow Or Not To Flow
“If I died,” my mother used to say, “your father would be terribly sad. But he would not die. Without music, though, he wouldn’t last a week.” She was right.