Greetings from peaceful Amherst, Massachusetts. I write to you from among the massive white pines and rocky slopes of Cushman Stream, a brief oasis of woodland in the bustling Pioneer Valley. It's been dreadfully hot here, but our sweaty outings have been punctuated by plenty of air conditioning, and this morning the temperature outside has dropped to an almost chilly level. Who knew I would ever wear a sweater again?
We spent yesterday with Tom's parents at a remarkable estate sale--a family house crammed full of a lifetime of stuff, all of which was completely open to the public. It was like visiting a strange and poignant museum. Much of the stuff was musty and moldy, much of it just cheap junk, but buying wasn't the attraction. We all came away from the house moved and bemused. Who were these people? What happened in this place?
Later today Tom and I will head back north to our own rooms and garden and cat and work, and I now can't stop imagining my own house as a museum, cracked wide open to the world.