And thank you to you others who wrote. I’m encouraged about the state of mankind and the world, that there are people who see and love where they are.

Hours later, the spires of Chicago cut through the mists. We docked just as a great thunderstorm materialized over us, and the rain fell on us in sheets and howled through the rigging of nearby masts, and then the storm was gone. My brother and I left that evening for Michigan again. I like Chicago, but I cannot stay long in a place without trees. It exhausts me; I feel on edge, naked below the dome of the skies.

Now I am home, and trees surround me Atop this sandy hill. I like saying the names of the trees as I see them. Pinus resinosa. Bark-like-scales. Pinus alba, wintery, with craggy branches. Quercus rubrum, the ancient. There is a constant soughing when the air breathes. And here, a bit farther away, is the place where lily-of-the-valley bloomed not two months past. Legend says they first sprouted when Eve wept on the ground, cast out of Eden. You could smell them at night a quarter mile away, the tears of one who had seen paradise.

Here there is a field. Hawks-eye grows there, and plantain covers the ground under feathery red clumps of grass. Little blue-stem and others I don’t know the names of yet. Grapes slither underfoot. Above golden and indigo birds might wing. If you look closely, you may be drawn into the strange and alien world of mosses and lichens in sand and on rock. Above an eagle cries.

I haven’t spoken yet about the river. Or of the small lakes and ponds, the smell of rain. They are a work unto themselves. And in the autumn all that is Michigan grows stronger, more poignant, and sadder and more joyful. I could never tire of it. But the winter is my favorite. I shouldn’t try, perhaps, to write about it here; I am writing a book about it, that hardly allows me to start.

Let me leave you, then, in this summer field. You won’t grow hungry, if you know where to look. There are wild strawberries and raspberries underfoot, and yonder is sorrel, dandelion, burdock, grape, carrot. Daucus carrota. Look up! the sun is shining through the juniper, and all its needles are lit up like threads of fire.

Hang on to that job! I hope your retirement plans and timing work out for you.

For me, I’ve bounced around the country, not really willingly, (other than liking to be employed), but I have enjoyed it. AND I’m glad to be back in the Midwest. (and hopefully at my last job before retirement).

Actually, there’s a third aspect, and that’s the footloose character of Americans. All of our ancestors, except those who were brought as slaves and had no choice, got here because they were willing to pack up and go. We are still doing that. And that too is not necessarily a bad thing. We have avoided the bloody wars over particular patches of land that have racked much of the old world. But it does mean that we tend to forget the value of the world around us. It becomes a resource, not a home.

I lived inland once for six months and it almost killed me. Have to be beside the sea!