May 13, 2013


I'm not surprised how easy it is to lose track of the days when there's no one around asking me to remember them. The only difficulty I face most mornings is getting through the paper's crossword with Nate. Still, I've discovered being in transit like this does a body good, and the black rings settled in underneath my eyes go to show.

Lee and his Jack Russel Syd live down a dirt road somewhere in Virginia where the farmlands look from out of a storybook. Lee gives us a tour of the grounds that surround the hundred year old property while Syd follows us stick in mouth, ready for fetch at our convenience. After a short walk in the woods, I spend an evening pulling dozens of ticks from off my body, the dogs', and for a moment I hatch a resentment for summer in New England.

Lee gives me banjo lessons in the morning in between sips of coffee and stories of Syd's nine lives: the times he wrestled with a copperhead, a turkey vulture, a pack of German Shepherds, a family of raccoons. I peek into his office later and find only the necessities, evidence of a writer in solitude: a dictionary, a guitar, and a BB gun.

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