“The Tree at my Window.”
Good morning from gray, grey Vermont. This day could not be more somber–with its cold, dark, rainy weather. Inside, with the blessing of electricity, there’s light and heat and enough good cheer to match this day’s gloom.
Today I’ve a story to tell. My husband’s boss makes pens out of old pieces of wood. We met him and his wife for dinner last Saturday night, and before we started in on our meals, he gave me a brown leather pen case. I looked inside and then carefully pulled a pen out. It had silver trappings with a wooden barrel, and the wood was smooth and shiny–an ivory color swirling with beige highlights. I felt the weight of it, and thought immediately that this would be my special book signing pen. This pen would see me through Quill Point and beyond.
But Dennis wasn’t quite done with his story. He knew a friend who knew some land, and a certain tree had fallen down. Did Dennis want some of its wood? When the land was once Robert Frost’s and the tree the topic of one of his poems, there’s only one answer. My pen is made from the tree that Robert Frost wrote about in The Tree at my Window. I the author, and Frost the poet, are connected through time by my beautiful pen, thanks to Dennis, who envisioned the connection as he worked the wood. How can I not aspire to great works of my own?
It’s pouring now; the wind has picked up. For a little while at least, I can stay in this refuge, away from the reality of wet gloves and drippy glasses. I have some time off from work this week, and I look forward to celebrating Thanksgiving. You may remember that it’s my favorite holiday, because most of us do have at least one thing to be thankful for, to celebrate, even without the great food and family gatherings. Me, I’m grateful for too many things to list, but I will say this: Thank you for reading my blog. I appreciate your coming along on this writing journey of mine.
What are you grateful for? Check back next week for another segment of Finding Home.