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The more things change...

Change is not so much what we make as it is what happens to us unawares. Not everything that changes is progress but it is inevitable that everything changes. The seasons flow on, all too quickly. We tighten our life-vests, and try to steer clear of the rocks. Along our way down the river, we are grateful for every resting place. Here's ours. Above, as it was in our first August here in 2016, and below, as it is now. We still miss the old cherry tree in the foreground of the first photo. It died the year after we moved here. We've carved a garden out of the hill and planted blueberries on the slope above. One thing hasn't changed. We're still here. It's still home. We'll hold to that reality as long as we can.


I remember, when I was just a wee tad, in my grandfather's book cabinet, among tomes scholarly and theological, dwelt a green covered book, inscribed in ancient and blackened gilt, Grimms' Fairy Tales.

My mother worried the stories therein were too violent and explicit for my tender mind, but Miss Helen, my grandfather's second wife, read them to me on the sly. We romped gleeful through those darknesses.

Seven decades and some later, I'm reading them again for myself, although I still hear Miss Helen's voice on every page. We in the Craft call this research.

Henry's books.