Returning Home and Revisioning My Story
It was, all sensibly, as if the clear maer being still there, even as a shining expanse of snow spread over a plain, my exploring tread, for application to it, had quite unlearned the old pace and found itself naturally falling into another, which might sometimes indeed more or less agree with the original tracks, but might most oen, or very nearly, break the surface in other places. —Henry James, The Golden Bowl
The sun shines brightly on the poplar, maple, oak, pine, and sourwood trees that sur-round our summer home in the southeastern United States.1 Our log cabin sits on the ridge of Hollow Mountain, thirty-ve hundred feet above sea level. Looking out the window of my study, I note how fresh and “aended to” the mountainside looks. I feel a sense of physical accomplishment as I recall swinging the long sha of my Shindaiwa weed eater back and forth over the tall Kentucky 31 Fescue grass on the hillside. It is a feeling I don’t get back at my home in Tampa, where Art and I pay hired workers to do much of our yard work.