Retirement of a Lifetime

lective nostalgia, while retaining just enough of what we’re nostalgic for to remind us to be nostalgic for it. There’s nothing wrong with nostalgia, I suppose, and I’m as susceptible to it as the next person. But when it becomes our only connection to the things we care deeply about, we have lost something very precious indeed.

I now live about 20 miles north of the home my parents moved to when I was a boy. This community reminds me very much of where I grew up: Farmers and loggers and tradespeople. A smattering of artists and teachers. Big parcels of land, mostly unposted. Come deer season, lots of trucks. Actually, come any season, lots of trucks. When I tell people where I live, they’ll often say something like “Oh, I love it up there. It’s the way Vermont used to be,” and the look of nostalgia on their face is unmistakable. But I know that this place will change, too. And I know that, just like my parents 40 years ago, my family and I are part of that change.

I sometimes wonder if this is why I cling so stubbornly to our wood stove, even in summer. It’s a connection to my past, an easy conduit to early memories of hauling firewood in the back of my father’s little Honda, or even just the way it felt to sit by its iron sides, soaking up the heat. But maybe it represents something even more; maybe it’s my small contribution to keeping something the way it was. For just a bit longer, at least. I know that in the big picture, cooking on a wood stove isn’t going to stem the inevitable tide. Sitting in my chair on a summer morning while I wait for the fire to perc my coffee, I am merely the smallest of eddies in the midst of a very strong current.

That’s OK. I’m not looking to change the world. Like so many, I’m just enjoying the fact of something so ingrained in my life that it’s become ritual. That, and I really want a cup of coffee.