The man who swept and cleaned my room at Dartmouth-Hitchcock lives in a nearby farmhouse where he grew up. All this complex here, all these buildings, he says, unrolling trash bags, was once a pig farm. Marooned in bed, IV-ed with multiple lines, I ask questions. His family raised beef, milked, had sheep, their own pigs, a chicken-and-egg empire run by the family women.
We talk food – garden canning, slaughtering and freezing, how his mother’s cookstove had a can of grease they used for eggs, steaks, day-old biscuits. That stuff in a box we eat now, with too many ingredients, that’s not food.
We get to gravy recipes, boiling water and how much flour to paste in. Then we wish each other well. Done for the day, he trundles his cart down the hall.
Home, I’m less cloudy for a few morning hours. By afternoon, the cats and I retreat to lying down, reading, slipping in and out of sleep, where I dream of an enormous pig farm where those tall glass buildings now tower over the surrounding woods. I dream myself back to early girlhood, sick, sick, playing paper dolls in bed. I weld my paring knife, skinning a Chioggia beet. For one long piercing moment, I ache to pull on my jacket and boots, slip wordlessly out the door and along the brambly path – a solitary walk to clear my mind. How I’d relish stepping from frosty twilight into my warm house. Patience, patience: my lesson now.
Friends text photos of sunsets, lakes, moss, running streams. Cell phone photos once so common to me, I study these, proof of a winter day. Mail arrives. Half insurance bills, half gorgeous cards – flowers, a paper wreath, snowy mountains – and so many welcome words. Late afternoon, I cook a pot of rice, my first contribution to a meal in weeks, save setting out forks and spoons like a toddler.
I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
within the coarser leaf folded round,
and the butteryellow glow
in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory
opens blue and cool on a hot morning.
– Denise Levertov
Stony Soil Vermont 
It must have been a fascinating conversation with the room cleaner. He’s so right, so much of what is offered to us is not real food.
But a pot of rice is still a precious pot of rice, and a lovely step forward.
🩵
Pig farm before DH! Oh the stories and past lives of the ground beneath our feet. Part of my own family farm is under a Hampton Inn. We’ll actually stay there for three nights in December—an odd off-kilter homecoming. We spread my mother’s ashes in one of the remaining intact fields a few years ago and looked across at the hotel through the trees.
Glad you are getting some time at your own sweet home in these days of treatment. I hope the company of cats and daughters helps offset the absence of walks and interactions. Wishing you a cloak of healing and sending so much love your way.
Nice to hear from you…. have a lovely trip back to your family’s former farm. How the world does change.
Hi there
I saw you had read a blog I wrote on Stanford so I thought I would check your blog.
It seems you are in early treatment for lymphoma and live in Vermont.
I have lived with Myeloma for over 20 years and back in 2005 was diagnosed and shocked.
Lymphoma and myeloma are both blood cancers and do respond well to treatment.
will you get transplant??
if you have questions I’d love to help!
hang in there!
Christina from Tahoe girl
Hi Brett. I never tire of chewing on your words, small meals in themselves. However, it seems I’ve missed hearing updates on your health issues. Praying, my friend.
Hi Christina,
Thanks for writing in. I read your blog with great interest. I am not expecting to get a transplant — it’s reassuring to me that you’ve lived so long. I’ll reach out to you with any other questions.
Thanks again!
Hi Mitch,
I always enjoy catching up on your blog, too. Your prayers are appreciated!
Your story compels me to stop whatever I am doing when I get the notification and read your blog. Hugs from Nashville.
Thank you, Nashville. 🧡🩵
I hope that walk into the winter air finds you soon 💙
💙
When my brother-in-law was in the hospital for a month after a whipple (and complications that ensued) he got to know every person who came into the room to help or clean in some way. It amazed me that he could be so compassionate to others and interested in their lives while he suffered so much, but they were his passport to other worlds beyond the hospital room. The custodian I’m sure felt seen and appreciated and your conversation memorable.
Your brother-in-law must be an amazing person.✨