He was lanky and far too thin, with a respectable fight wound across his pink nose and an unmistakable kindness in his eyes. He did not bark, or wag his tail, or even stand up in. . .
Drive just a few miles in any direction from the downtown bustle of Burlington, Vermont, and you’ll be in the figurative middle of nowhere. The landscape opens up to rolling pasture, lazy two. . .
Offered in two distinctive washes—a rich deep indigo and a perfectly faded, well-loved-and-oft-worn light wash—we should have called this “2 shirts 3 ways.” And we’d still be just. . .
A few years ago, my friend Bob Murphy gave me a picture of a room. It’s a big glassed porch—filled with old tackle and walled with old single pane, divided-light windows—that one would imagine is attached to some late 19th or early 20th century lake house somewhere in the. . .
Standing on the ridge I looked across a sea of grass with mountain islands here and there, the distance defined only by the last jagged range in sight. “How far are those?”
Being a dad is an adventure. I’m sure that’s what my dad thought that windy afternoon in the canoe many years ago, when I put a size 14 dry fly in his neck just shy of his jugular. . .
Written by: Lucinda Jamison
Fall in Tennessee is a vibrant artist’s palette. A blaze of bright hues burnishes the hill, and even the trees have colorful names—red maple, yellow buckeye, black cherry, blue beech. Flashes of brilliance flit by as the brightly feathered cardinals and tanagers, bluebirds, and goldfinches. . .
Driving into Blackberry Farm following a midnight flight to Knoxville, the first thing I noticed was the gleam of seemingly mile after mile of pristine white fence through the pitch-black dark. The. . .