Spring arrived in Central Kentucky at a little after 7 p.m. yesterday. I spent the last hours of early winter and the first hours of spring cleaning in Hades: my kitchen. I hadn’t meant to spend the day that way. To the contrary, I felt that I had somewhat expiated any obligations to the gods of tidiness (those gods that
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Yesterday, the penultimate day of winter, my husband and I took a walk on the farm. We noted that we were nineteen years past our first walk together on this land, and that, both literally and metaphorically, a lot of water has flowed from Buck Run Creek into the Kentucky River since then. Between us, in those nineteen years, we’ve
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Now I’m sporting a tiny cast on my damaged left small finger. The cast is the first in a series of unknown quantity, intended to ameliorate a post-traumatic proximal interphalangeal joint flexion contracture (in short: a miserably stiff and drawn left pinky finger resulting from complications following an injury that severed the flexor tendon, nerves, and artery). I’ll wear this
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