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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. Got bored with teaching, took up running, and went into higher ed administration. 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.
Not to be overly dramatic, but I often feel like I’m living inside a medieval castle, hiding behind the battlements, making sure that the drawbridge is up, and hoping that
With everybody except the oligarchs worried about the price of eggs, I’m remembering the happy years that I spent in the company of hens. They were Buff Orpingtons—matronly, butter-colored birds
The French poet Gérard de Nerval used to walk his pet lobster, named Thibault, on a leash on the streets of Paris. Me, I walk Truffle up and down a
When hope has lost its feathers and cowers shivering in the dark, and spirits founder to unfathomed depths, do not despair: relief is close at hand. Reach out and grab
The days are growing longer. Standing knee-deep in the snow at noon, you can feel the sun on your face. And if there is any doubt that spring is coming,
Truffle has been with us for six weeks now, and he has come a long way from the quasi-inert dog who just wanted to be left alone. He has mastered
I have lately, for my sins, started playing the recorder again. This is along the same lines of insanity, though perhaps slightly less drastic, as getting the dog Truffle. What
At dawn the bluebirds come to drink at the birdbath. It’s zero degrees, and they are fluffed out into spheres, their heads barely sticking out of their neck feathers. They
Not to be overly dramatic, but I often feel like I’m living inside a medieval castle, hiding behind the battlements, making sure that the drawbridge is up, and hoping that
With everybody except the oligarchs worried about the price of eggs, I’m remembering the happy years that I spent in the company of hens. They were Buff Orpingtons—matronly, butter-colored birds
The French poet Gérard de Nerval used to walk his pet lobster, named Thibault, on a leash on the streets of Paris. Me, I walk Truffle up and down a
When hope has lost its feathers and cowers shivering in the dark, and spirits founder to unfathomed depths, do not despair: relief is close at hand. Reach out and grab
The days are growing longer. Standing knee-deep in the snow at noon, you can feel the sun on your face. And if there is any doubt that spring is coming,
Truffle has been with us for six weeks now, and he has come a long way from the quasi-inert dog who just wanted to be left alone. He has mastered
I have lately, for my sins, started playing the recorder again. This is along the same lines of insanity, though perhaps slightly less drastic, as getting the dog Truffle. What
At dawn the bluebirds come to drink at the birdbath. It’s zero degrees, and they are fluffed out into spheres, their heads barely sticking out of their neck feathers. They