One of our volunteer librarians was troubled over the election. We talked and she mentioned the Gratitude Diaries, and how this book had helped her, both now and when her son was horribly injured. I will have to check it out (so to speak).
On the family front, i’m really grateful for this smile:
Also, thanks to those I never see but whose words mean much to me. Thank you online friends for your lively entries and faithful blogging:
may gratitude wake me!
I step onto the edge of this earthy field. A few potatoes lie here and there. Some have been smashed by the mechanical harvester, but others are still good and could be gleaned. I stoop to steal a couple. They are buff-colored, dimpled with textured skin, rough beneath my thumb. Standing here with the Aroostook wind blowing across me, across the fields, I’m shivering.
I look out into the wind toward the spread patchwork of fields. The fields surrounding are dug up, brown but crisscrossed with green—the boundaries of other fields defined in trees. There in the distance is a tiny grouping of harvester and truck, appearing motionless, going about the ponderous mechanical business of gathering tubers. There, high schoolers stand on the rumbling platform, slinging rotten spuds and rocks from conveyors. It’s all too small for me to see distinctly and I don’t see the people: I see machines.