After my weekend in Ohio, I could turn this post into a reflection on family history, a diatribe on the importance of knowing your legacy, or even a simple story about my (long deceased) great-uncle Jack. I don't think I'm going to do that. I could tell you about finding a rare obituary or the frustration of hearing your name said a dozen times a minute when no one is talking about you.
No. At least, not this time.
You see, in a place where reception is a distant memory, the panic that sets in every time you see that your phone still has no service quickly dissipates into a calm appreciation of the greed of AT&T. The phone gets left behind for the first time in years. The absence of guilt that accompanies you is precious, knowing that it isn't your fault for missing several calls.
The goats on the Fuller farm traversed the hill at the back of the house with as much grace as a goat can possibly exude and certainly more so than me. The fog that typically resides in valleys like that seemed to swallow the wandering goats. The cattle, however, weren't as discreet; in comparison to the goats, their bellows and snorts and plop of manure were gauche and disgusting.
Once the fog lifted and the goats miraculously reappeared in the barn, we traversed their hill with some difficulty to find the Stone Dog.
(to be continued).