Life in the Kingdom | Change Happens

In the early evening, Kyle and Katy and I pile into Kyle’s truck and we drive the 16 miles of narrow, winding roads in our town, measuring sections that were damaged—and in many cases, obliterated—by last year’s flooding. There are a lot of sections. I ride in the back seat with one of those wheeled measuring devices at my feet, and when we arrive at each start point, Kyle slows to a fast idle. I open my door and dangle the measuring wheel until we reach the end of the section, at which point I pull it back into the cab, check the recorded distance, and relay it to Katy, who makes a note on her clipboard. Kyle recites the GPS coordinates off his phone, and she makes a note of these, too. And then it’s on to the next section, the cool, late-day air sluicing through our open windows, fluttering the papers on Katy’s clipboard and raising goose bumps on my arms. 

It’s been a year since the flooding, and still we are navigating reams of FEMA paperwork, of which there seems to be no end. Twice we’ve been assured that we’ve submitted all the necessary particulars only to discover there’s still more to be done—another set of coordinates, another column of measurements, another stack of invoices, another state permit, and so on. It’s like the end zone keeps moving into a receding horizon, and along with it, the funding that will help our small town claw its way out of the deep financial hole we’ve had to dig in order to reopen our roads.

In my worst moments, I curse the government and its infinite spool of red tape, much of which seems to me irrelevant, even nonsensical, more a test of persistence than a gathering of essential information. But in my better moments, I consider that without it, I wouldn’t be here right now, bantering with Kyle and Katy, watching the sun glint off the surface of Flagg Pond, my nose filling with the sweet scents of marsh and field and forest, reminded yet again of what a gift it is to live in a place I love so deeply and am blessed to inhabit with people I hold in such high regard as the ones sitting right here beside me. 

I’ve had the privilege of writing this column for nearly a decade. Even more so, I’ve had the privilege of people reading it for nearly a decade. I’ve long believed that the gift of attention is the greatest gift one can give or receive, and for all these years I’ve been the recipient of my readers’ attention. Of your attention. For that, I’m incredibly grateful.

A lot has changed over these years. Our family moved. Our sons have transitioned into and through their teens and are now entering young adulthood. Rye lives in Montana, working on a cattle ranch and as a big-game hunting guide. When I spoke with him only an hour before I sat down to write this, he was at the tail end of his first season of branding, and in his voice I could hear both excitement and the fatigue of long hours. Fin is teaching whitewater kayaking in Idaho only a few hours west of his brother. He lives out of the bed of his old Toyota pickup and tells me it’s not so bad, though sometimes he wishes he had enough headroom to stand upright. 

At times, it’s almost overwhelming to me that my children are grown, and that their days begin and end more than 2,500 miles from where I now sit, in places I do not know, and have never even seen, at least not yet. I am so grateful that they are both thriving, and living in embrace of the big, magical experiences this world has to offer. As every parent knows, none of this is guaranteed. All we can do is our best, even in the face of the humbling knowledge that our best might not be enough. 

Another thing has changed, too: Penny and I are no longer together. We now live as neighbors, with her in the original home we built nearly a decade ago, and me in the house we built as a rental a few years back. It’s just down the road from her place, perched at the height of a sandy knoll in a way that somehow reminds me of a ship at sea. In the evenings, I work on clearing a copse of spruce and fir along the southeast side of the house where I intend to plant a forest orchard. Thus far, I’ve amassed a satisfying pile of saw logs, stacked a small mountain of brush, and planted a half dozen apple trees along the fringe of the cut. 

But in my mind’s eye, I can already see it coming to life, taking a shape I can’t quite bring into focus but which I allow myself to believe will be even more beautiful than I can possibly imagine. And while I might once have been naive enough to say with certainty that I will be here to see those trees bear fruit, my naivete has long since given way to a more realistic acknowledgement that I cannot know with any certainty what the future will bring. But for now, at least, I am settled. For now, I plant with the intention of watching the blossoms unfold for many years to come. 

Through all the changes in my life, both over the past year and in the many years before, one thing has remained constant: I love writing this column. I love sharing the small stories of my life, of this place, and of the people who inhabit it. I love how it compels me to slow down, to pay closer attention, to search for just the right words, in just the right order. There are times I feel as if I’ve gotten it right, and times when I know I haven’t. But even that is part of the pleasure, if only because it means that my writing here is an honest reflection of myself: doing the best I know how, but sometimes falling short. I guess that’s maybe about the most any of us can realistically expect of ourselves. 

I hope to be sharing stories from the Kingdom for many years to come. And I hope that you’ll all be along for the ride.  

This column was originally published in the September/October 2024 issue of Yankee.

Ben Hewitt

Born and raised in Vermont, Ben Hewitt has played several roles throughout his life, including as a homesteader, carpenter, writer, and parent. He is very grateful to his readers for their ongoing support.

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