A week ago it was over 80 degrees outside, and now there are a couple of inches of snow on the ground. I wondered the other day how this will affect plants over the next twenty years, in a post-apocalyptical way. No, I’m sure like The Lorax, capitalism will find a way to make money then.

I’ve had dreams about my father lately.

I recall feeling like I knew and respected how he lived and I that I was one of his defenders. That feels like ages ago now.

A few weeks ago I was talking to Kate about organizing my history into three lives; growing up, Seattle, and returning home. I was thinking about the great chasm of instability in these transitions and recognizing that I’m still adjusting to this most recent change. Moving to Seattle, I recall feeling like M was giving up less than was. In retrospect, true or not, I did not have the wherewithal to judge such things at the time. Now I can recognize and measure the change much better. Less important is how different my life was a year ago, more how I thought about it differently. At the time, settling down and having children was something I planned for in the foggy “someday.” I have lacked a ten year plan most of my life and had no desire for one. Now there are, as Kate says, a smaller number of infinite possibilities.

The big reason for moving home was to spend time with my Grandparents. This is one of the most fulfilling decisions I’ve ever made. I realize the other night that once Grampie and Grammie McLellan return for the summer I’ll be visiting them on weekends without Kate as she’ll be deep in farming activity. Still, this is important.

We started watching Due South recently. I laughed at vast canyon between the shows I used to like and what is on network television today. The main character’s father works for the RCMP, as did his father. After his father is murdered, he begins realizing how much they had in common despite being mostly separated.

I have no memories of my father driving a tractor. Maybe the Case Loader/Backhoe. I can faintly remember him splitting wood at the field near the Maggie Camp. Often my grandfather tells me about spending time with my father laying hardwood floors, or working on the bulldozer. I didn’t know that person. He had grown much older than his age by the time I was in my twenties.

We burned a cord of wood this winter. Not that we needed to, the oil boiler works fine and I make plenty of money to pay for the oil. Part of it is probably nostalgia, that comes heavy when you grow up in a house with a cookstove. While interviewing my grandfather yesterday as part of an oral history project, I asked him about how often he used to go to town when he was young. He said they would go to the village, about eight miles away, a few times a week. But they very rarely went to Ellsworth, which I call the city. It was a different time, one where the village had a half dozen stores to its two now, one of which I believe opened new last year. When I was working from home I found myself a little stir-crazy if I hadn’t left the house all day, but I think that I don’t mind if I don’t leave Surry all day. I love the woods behind our house and I treasure our family heritage here.