Saturday will mark 20 years since the chilly day I arrived at this peculiar little house on a peculiar little farm in the Appalachian foothills. When you meet people they always ask what brought you here, and in my case, there’s no particular answer. The currents of life, I suppose. It was a gamble, as life tends to be.
Most every publication in the country has run at least one column or “lifestyle” story this month about how to get along with relatives on Thanksgiving even though they are evil fascists. (To which I’d add, or football fans.)