
I am an inveterate loner and pretty much have been since day one. Raised in a large family, I was born into two great privileges — love and stability — but the very size of the operation meant I was regularly left to my own devices. I spent long solo hours in the woods and ditches, driving a tractor, and reading stacks and stacks of books up in my bedroom or out on the porch. I came to love solitude, whether I was truly alone, or simply alone in my head even in the midst of the day’s happy tumult.
Yesterday we had a gathering at our farmhouse, an informal group of friends and relatives who arrived less by invitation than coincidence. I had been on the road for most of the previous two weeks and had come home in the wee hours and thus arose perhaps a tad after the roosters and in fact well after the guests had arrived. Some were out walking, some were picking tomatoes, others were chopping apples gathered from beneath our big tree.
Eventually — as with all the best get-togethers — everyone wound up in the kitchen. There were three or four conversations crisscrossing the countertop as the meal came together. After the team prep, we moved to the dining room table and ate lasagna layered with tomatoes that only a few hours ago had lain whole in the sun. Meanwhile the scent of apple crisp drifted from the oven.
My wife is not a loner. Her heart is full when the house is full. I forget that sometimes, much to my discredit. In fact, when we were dating, I often arrived to find her house filled with friends gathered for a meal. When I close my eyes and recall those moments what I see is her smile.
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