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
Bisou\’s TV Interview
I never knew she was such a publicity hound, but she sure did like the camera: https://www.wcax.com/content/news/Dog-walking-group-at-Wake-Robin-gets-more-seniors-outside-509741431.html
Writer, Interrupted
The year my first daughter was born, I wrote my dissertation. I had spent the previous nine months researching and then making an excruciatingly detailed outline of the project. The
Sister Squirrel
As with most people who feed the birds, my relationship with the gray squirrel oscillates between grudging tolerance and rodenticidal rage. There is no lack of stories about the squirrel\’s
Despoiling the Amazon
When my parents and I lived in Quito, Ecuador in the 1950s, the Amazon jungle wasn\’t what it is now: fragile, endangered, dying the death of a thousand cuts. Instead,
Why Concerts Make Me Sad
When my father died of lung cancer at fifty-three, his death wrenched me out of the ocean of music that I\’d been swimming in since infancy. Even as a toddler,
Meditation Blues
It was the start of the new millennium, and I was in my first yoga class. The teacher kept saying things like \”focus on the breath!\” \”relax your muscles!\” \”clear
My Cat, Master of Intermittent Reinforcement
All my life, in my loves and in my friendships, I have preferred a reliable stream of constant affection to sudden passionate outpourings followed by unpredictable periods of silent withdrawal.
Be a Balm
Often, when I write, a feeling of futility washes over me. What is the use, I think, of sitting here day after day, sifting through adjectives and tweaking clauses and
My Green Vermont
Latest Posts
Bisou\’s TV Interview
I never knew she was such a publicity hound, but she sure did like the camera: https://www.wcax.com/content/news/Dog-walking-group-at-Wake-Robin-gets-more-seniors-outside-509741431.html
Writer, Interrupted
The year my first daughter was born, I wrote my dissertation. I had spent the previous nine months researching and then making an excruciatingly detailed outline of the project. The
Sister Squirrel
As with most people who feed the birds, my relationship with the gray squirrel oscillates between grudging tolerance and rodenticidal rage. There is no lack of stories about the squirrel\’s
Despoiling the Amazon
When my parents and I lived in Quito, Ecuador in the 1950s, the Amazon jungle wasn\’t what it is now: fragile, endangered, dying the death of a thousand cuts. Instead,
Why Concerts Make Me Sad
When my father died of lung cancer at fifty-three, his death wrenched me out of the ocean of music that I\’d been swimming in since infancy. Even as a toddler,
Meditation Blues
It was the start of the new millennium, and I was in my first yoga class. The teacher kept saying things like \”focus on the breath!\” \”relax your muscles!\” \”clear
My Cat, Master of Intermittent Reinforcement
All my life, in my loves and in my friendships, I have preferred a reliable stream of constant affection to sudden passionate outpourings followed by unpredictable periods of silent withdrawal.
Be a Balm
Often, when I write, a feeling of futility washes over me. What is the use, I think, of sitting here day after day, sifting through adjectives and tweaking clauses and