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Selected Podpieces

The Rescue Squad to the Rescue

As I write this, the floor under my feet is vibrating, and a low loud rumble and grinding is going on outside. I'm in my office in downtown Orleans, and out front a crew is putting pipes of some kind into the ground, and ripping up sidewalks to put down other sidewalks. When I approached my building this morning a policeman frowned and shook his head severely at me, and when I waved wildly and pointed behind him toward the parking lot that was my destination, he came over and leaned down to say, You can't get there today. Read More 

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One day in mid-May, five baby Eastern gray squirrels erupted from a hole in the big white oak in my back yard and took on the not-so-difficult task of entertaining us. All day they scampered, clung, jumped, clambered, scritched, climbed, clawed, bumped, clumped, huddled, and pestered – but they never left the big oak. Read More 

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It's funny, isn't it, how people often get nervous about saying the name of a recently dead person. When we run into a widow, or a newly-orphaned adult, or a parent whose child has died, we'll say, “How are you doing? I'm so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”  Read More 
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Now and then I walk with Pippin and Thurber, the Rescue Squad, in the woods on a piece of public land not far from my home. There are gravel roads running through it that are kept in good enough condition for trucks to use, and there are half a dozen cinder block storage buildings owned by the town. As with any piece of land on Cape Cod, it’s not exactly wilderness; but not many people walk around there, which is why I do.  Read More 
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My father, Donald W. Baker, was a poet. I was looking through some of his poems the other day, both published and unpublished, and here's one I particularly like.

Dying In Massachusetts

I think I should like to die in Massachusetts,
wading Parker's River in sneakers at slack water,
my wire basket a quarter full of blue crabs,
and I easing my long-handled net towards a big one. Read More 
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