Our lives are tied to the fate of trees the way some people’s are tied to money, others religion. But my father believes there is an insurmountable distinction between logging and real estate. Logging, he says, can be done tastefully, with heart, so that a year later no one knew you were there, so that the trees left standing have a chance to thrive. Real estate, he says, can never be done well. He has called my husband a carpetbagger, a rich bastard, and a flatlander all in the course of an evening, which means he doesn’t come to our house anymore. It means when I want to see his glistening angry blue eyes and catch the familiar earthy whiff of hemlock sap and cigarette smoke and clean sweat, I get in my car and come here to the Stonewall on Route 100, where I know he’ll be sitting in the afternoon light across from Rita at the far end of the bar, drinking the finest Scotch they carry, the kind they keep in stock just for him. And I can tell you the name of every other person here as well—Joe Maise, Terry Miner, Rich Miller, Jay Cole Jr.
