By now, the wind has emptied the milkweed pods. The goldenrod has gone mousy. All the leaves are down, except for a few tenacious oaks and beeches and an ornamental dogwood that is a reprise of the entire season. Each tree looks more singular — and the woods more intimate — in this bare month than in the thickness of summer. October’s memory seems a little lurid from the perspective of mid-November. The sumacs down by the road might have been reading Swinburne the way they caught fire and expired, vaingloriously, in last month’s light. But now that drama is over, as if the year had come up hard on a plain, Puritan truth and was the better for it.
Source: A Private Month - New York Times
I come late to this writing about place. I can remember a few books long ago that spoke of a specific place that I read and reread. The titles have long since passed from my memory, but the pictures of the places they spoke of still linger. Mostly they spoke of mountain villages and rural life.
When I first stumbled upon Fragments From Floyd it was that voice that caught my attention. That voice that spoke of something I was missing. Something I yearned for early but sublimated as the years of life happened. When Fred first mentioned he was publishing a book and offered a deal to those who purchased a copy prior to publication I jumped on the offer. Fragment's and A Slow Road Home led me on a journey to other voices of other places. It was the discovery of a quote by Verlyn Klinkenborg on (I think it was) Susan Albert's Lifescapes Blog that led me to purchase a copy of Rural Life. Then Colleen gave a glowing review of Jim Minnick's Finding A Clear Path that led to another internet purchase. So when the link popped up with the title and author of this Editorial I had to follow. After reading it I felt compelled to link...So follow and read.
