I love good writing, especially when it focuses on New England's food, art and culture. So when I first heard about Take Magazine, and flipped through its glossy, well-designed pages, I fell hard and fast. The publication is beautifully done. The photography is breathtaking and the writing is superb.
But they don't deserve my patronage.
I grew up playing with frogs, chasing after salamanders, building hay forts and riding on the tractor with my grandfather as we collected sap to make maple syrup. I wore dungarees, played sports and knew how to clean the scales off a freshly caught fish. I could throw a bale of hay almost as far as my cousin. And I understood the entire process whereby the cute baby farm animals would become ingredients for my dinner.
In short, I was a tomboy.
On January 3, the American Dialect Society announced 'because' as the 2013 Word of the Year. In a statement issued earlier this week, the Society acknowledged that 'because' is increasingly used to introduce a noun or adjective rather than a full clause. In other words, the American Dialect Society is putting its stamp of approval on phrases such as 'because boundaries' or 'because awesome!'
"We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort. And that is why we write."
My original face was stone;
Ledge covered in moss.
Wisdom, age, beauty, stability,
My family landed in Guilford, Connecticut, in the 1600s and never left. Growing up, my grandfather would tell me that it didn't matter how far I traveled, I would always belong to this place and would always love the farm. In my adolescence, I didn't believe him — in fact, I was bound and determined to prove him wrong. At the earliest opportunity, I left New England to attend college in Washington, D.C.
My parents referred to it as the "murder capital of the world."
New England winters can be interminable. By the time February rolls around, the skies are gray and the snow is brown. March shows signs of warmer weather as thin sheets of ice stretch across the frozen mud. I understand why some people don’t like this time of year. But growing up, the weeks between Presidents’ Day and St. Patrick’s Day were a sweet, golden amber dream known as maple syrup season.