Geoffblog
Geoffblog
Submitted by ggevalt on February 12, 2008 - 16:11.As some of you know, I used to have a blog. I wrote about this project, about writing, about Vermont life, even about chickens. I liked having a place to write. I miss it. So I have decided to resume it on this site. I am going to resurrect a few of the pieces that I particularly liked and send the rest to hyperspace, where they belong.
Sugaring
Submitted by ggevalt on February 13, 2008 - 22:44.This story appears in the March issue of Vermont Life.
By Geoffrey Gevalt
YWP Editor
It is March and late at night, so late I don’t want to know the time. I am outside under my “sugar roof” watching sap boil. My family is inside asleep. One light burns in the kitchen, a beacon. It’s 22 degrees, forecast of 40 tomorrow – another run coming. A spotlight from the rafter shines on the steam and the pan, a tiny two feet by three feet. I’m nearly out of sap and am determined to squeeze out just a little more syrup before shutting down for the night.
I am, by every possible definition, an amateur at this. I tap 40 to 50 trees a year. I use third-hand buckets and the new narrow-gauge taps. In any given year I will haul, in clean, five-gallon paint buckets, 400 to 500 gallons of sap. Do the math: Each gallon of sap weighs about 8.5 pounds. (A gallon of syrup, if you wondered, weighs about 14 pounds though Vermont syrup is heavier because we cook it longer – tastier that way.)
Lydia's Diary -- Christmas
Submitted by ggevalt on February 13, 2008 - 22:25.This is the first pass at a story that has been in my head for years, a story triggered by an 11-month diary of a young girl from this time. This story was presented by Vermont Stage Company during its 2007 Winter Tales production.
NOTE: Feel free to continue this story or to create other diary entries...
Here's the link to the BOOK PAGE version of this story. Just add a child page to it. (You must be logged in.)
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By Geoffrey Gevalt
YWP Editor
December 24, 1894. Barton, Vermont. Four below. Cloudy. Storm brewing.
My name is Lydia. I’m 18 years old and live in Barton at a small farm with four brothers. I write this by candle, near the edge of my bed. It’s been a month since the trouble, since I disobeyed Pa and went out riding with Nathaniel in his two-wheeled gig. It was a cold November day, and we was bundled up against the gray. I was supposed to be home doin’ chores. I knew that. But when Nathaniel had stopped by, I just went anyways.
I’d met Nathaniel in the summertime. I was home doin’ the floors. I’d been baking pies for two days using the early apples and Pa and Ma had gone to town with the boys to sell them. Had some eggs and butter and the last of the wool, too. I was to stay at home. I always stay at home it seems like. Pa says it ain’t right that no one else’s come to courtin’, says goin’ to town is like parading me around. So my only day out now is Sundays to church. Pa says at 18 I’m almost past marrying age.
My Mom Dies
Submitted by ggevalt on April 6, 2006 - 16:17.This was written in April 2006, a month after my Mom's death.
By Geoffrey Gevalt
YWP Editor
My Mom has been gone a month now but I still have moments where I forget, when I want to pick up the phone to call her. Tonight it happened while I was washing dishes. I hate washing dishes.
Over the years I have tried to offset that distaste by getting something else done in the process, like phoning my Mom. It was easiest to do when we still had a 1960s-era, rotary wall phone with a long cord that stretched to the sink; the receiver fit nicely between the ear and shoulder.
