Susan Cooke Kittredge

Commentator

Susan Cooke Kittredge is Associate Pastor of the Charlotte Congregational Church.

With maples turning, and frost on the pumpkins, there are fewer customers at our farm stand. In comparison to the many robust farms with roadside sales, our farm stand is tiny, but I love it. Last spring, however, when the push to plant and organize and clean up in winter’s wake pressed hard, I decided I had to cut back on something. Serving a church, running a catering business and having a farm stand was just too much. Since I love being a minister, there was no way that would end. At first, I thought the stand would go. But as soon as the vegetables started coming in, that changed.

When I wasn’t attending camps in New England, the summers of my childhood were spent at the end of Long Island in a small beach house atop a sand bluff. Until the vineyards arrived about 30 years ago, there wasn’t much happening on the North Fork except lush fruit and vegetable farming. The small peninsula called Nassau Point on which my parents’ house stood jutted out into Peconic Bay and was, if you can believe it, pretty remote.

The subject of obesity and its impact on individuals and on our society as a whole is running the risk of redundancy. As often happens, repeated mention of a certain topic leads to our not really hearing it anymore; we don’t process information when we hear it over and over and over again.

In 1969 my brother-in-law who is an astrophysicist generously and patiently spent a long afternoon trying to explain black holes to me. After four hours I had a headache, but also a faint understanding of what these huge gravitational sinkholes might be.

I have long maintained that the excellent quality of Vermont’s public schools is a result of the Vietnam War. In the late 1960s and early 1970s idealism among young adults was rampant. Spurred on by what many believed was an ill-conceived war; people protested what was seen as the establishment’s unjust and immoral engagement in Vietnam.
 

Unlike most people, I’ve always enjoyed my visits to the Department of Motor Vehicles. Without a doubt, these excursions are not likely to be swift; an hour is pretty standard, but they can take longer.

Several years ago our daughter Jane, who is a violinist, needed a new bow. Finding the right one can take a long time; musicians take them out on trial and guard them with their lives.

Jane was testing a particularly wonderful bow when she was getting her Masters at a conservatory in Manhattan. Over Easter weekend there were few students at school so Jane spent long hours in a practice room, comparing her old bow with the new one and falling in love with the latter. Late Saturday night she packed up her case and walked home to her apartment.

The holiday season is so much about memory, remembering times past, good or bad, and creating memories for the future. I’ve asked people recently what their clearest memories are of holidays past and to a one they have recounted a particular event, a time when things went really well or really wrong. They haven’t talked about presents or decorations or even food, they’ve talked about people and relationships and often music. It’s worth remembering as we’re whipped into a frenzy of getting and spending: what we are apt to remember are small crystal moments of meaning.

Though we may put candles in our windows, adorn shrubs and Christmas trees with stands of lights, with the sun not rising until 7:15 and slipping behind the western hill shortly after 4pm, this remains a very dark time of year. We go to pretty extensive measures to mitigate the darkness and brighten our world.

In the Christian tradition this is Advent, a supposedly quiet time for contemplation and reflection. And with Hanukkah coming so early this year, Jews are in the midst of observing the Festival of Lights.

In the early 1980s in Middlesex, there was a Haunted House for the amusement of the local children. An old abandoned farmhouse in the center of town had been so neglected that, although it was very close to the road, it was barely visible since vines and trees encased its dark, weather beaten clapboards. Doors hung askew, the floors creaked, there was no electricity and it smelled musty from time and the resident rodents.

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