A ten-minute frolic, a morning interlude of squeals and wobbles, mother and daughter pursuing an age-old quest of mastery on the day we remember our war dead. I pause in my yard work, lean on my pushbroom, this snapshot in time collapsing into time past, me with a firm grip on my daughter’s tiny seat leading and guiding from behind, ever forward. And the cascade continues, in free-fall now to my own father, setting me free and thinking me able as I glide toward a parked car, failing the turn and bound for the emergency room with a broken arm.…
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From his Kentucky farm where he has long disdained use of a computer and rails against modern sins such as strip mining, industrial agriculture and unrestrained market capitalism, 84-year-old Wendell Berry occupies a unique place in contemporary American letters. Throughout his prolific output of novels, short stories, essays, and poetry totaling some 50 volumes, he is at once the stodgiest of conservatives, a thoughtful curmudgeon standing stoutly for the old ways of fidelity to family, place, religion, and modesty of expression. At the same time, he remains a darling of Subaru-driving outdoorsy liberals who cotton to his outspoken environmentalist views,…