In the house on the hill lived a bachelor farmer who raised beef cows and blueberries. He loved the history of the land, and, as his ancestors had lived here in the same spot for centuries, he knew it well. Salt marsh, uplands, rivers and tides sketched out the typography of his soul. As newcomers came and went from this pretty part of the world, he charmed them with stories about the past both turbulent and pastoral. We're just keepers of the land for the short time we're here, he liked to remind them.
He succumbed to an long illness recently, one of the hazards of farming, he once told me. Now all that’s left is the house on the hill, strewn remnants of a farmer's life and echoes of words worth remembering.