Life in the Kingdom | Taking Stock (2025)

The way I remember it, my father was cutting firewood and I was loading the stove-length pieces into the open hatchback of a ’70s-era Honda Civic. It was blue. No, brown. Or maybe just blue and very rusty. It was late September, or perhaps a particularly warm day in October. He was wearing jeans and tennis shoes and a T-shirt. He’d just taken a break to smoke a Lucky Strike, and as he smoked, I sat and ate the cheese sandwich my mother had packed for me. The smoke from his cigarette made a lazy drift in the air. It was midmorning. The sun shot through the canopy of turning leaves in slanting bolts. I was 8.

I know that any one of these particulars could be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a ’70s-era Honda Civic (though certainly my father owned one at some point in my childhood). Maybe there wasn’t a cheese sandwich (though it seems likely). Maybe he wasn’t wearing jeans and tennis shoes and a T-shirt (though the Lucky Strike, I’m sure, was real). Maybe I was 7 or 9 or even 10. Maybe it was raining. Memories are funny that way: They can seem so clear and specific and yet be riddled with errors. I think that sometimes we remember in the ways we want to remember. We remember in the ways that serve us—provide us a bit of comfort, or confirm something we think we know about the story of our lives. Maybe my story is this: I love cutting firewood. I love the acrid smell of chainsaw exhaust and even, from a certain distance, of a lit cigarette. I love sunlight slanting through the trees. I like a good cheese sandwich now and then: sharp cheddar, dense bread, a generous slather of mayo. That’s all you need. There’s no need to complicate things.

In journalism, there’s a term for what I’m doing: It’s called burying the lede, which is the practice of hiding the main point of a story inside another story. (I don’t know why it’s spelled “lede” and not “lead,” but it is.) And here is my buried lede: This is my final “Life in the Kingdom” column, and I find myself feeling strangely sanguine about its ending. Perhaps on some level, I know it’s time to bring it to a close. Perhaps already I’ve hung on too long. After all, I’ve been writing here for more than a decade. I’ve written through so many repeating seasons, so many years, so much change. I’ve written about my sons as boys, then teens, and most recently as men, living thousands of miles away. One is a ski patroller, whitewater kayak instructor, musician, and leader of wilderness expeditions. The other is a cowboy and farrier. My pride in them is bigger than the fullest moon; my love for them exceeds my ability to articulate it by such measure that I’m not even going to try.

I’ve written about the places and people and animals most dear to me. I’ve written about the weather (always, the weather). I’ve written about cars and trucks and tractors. I’ve arguably written far too much about firewood, though clearly that hasn’t stopped me from writing even more about firewood. I’ve expounded at length about moments so small, mundane, and unimportant to anyone but myself that I’m frankly a little embarrassed by my self-indulgence. I’ve written about marriage, and I’ve written about the ending of marriage. I’ve written a lot.

I’m going to miss this space. Selfishly, I’ll miss the blinking, questioning cursor at the beginning of a blank page and the permission to write whatever strikes me. What more could any writer dare to ask for? I’m grateful to Yankee for granting me this permission for so many years, and I’m overwhelmingly grateful to Mel Allen, my editor for the majority of those years. The column was his idea from the outset, and it’s always felt to me as if it belonged to him almost as much as it belonged to me. So: Thank you, Mel. You were a hell of a good editor.

But more than anything, I’ll miss all of you. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: The simple fact of your time and attention is an incredible privilege. I’ve tried not to take it for granted—though I’m sure, as the coming months tick by with no column to write, I’ll realize just how much I did take it for granted. Whatever the case, thank you all for reading. Thank you to those who have sent notes of support, and even critiques, which of course are their own form of caring.

If there’s a perfect way to end this, I’m not sure what it is. So, I guess I’ll just say goodbye and move on with my day. It’s midmorning, sunny, a little chilly. In a few minutes, I’m going to lace up my boots, grab my chainsaw, and head out the door; I’m about halfway through blocking up a decent-size maple that blew down sometime over the summer, and I’m keen to get it done. This weather won’t hold forever. But first, I’m going to finish my second cup of coffee, run a file over the saw chain, and then make myself a cheese sandwich for the woods.   

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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