All Outdoors
Wilfred J. Caron was a quizzical man. He owned a Christmas tree farm in Old Mystic, Conn., right on U.S. Route 1. His ramshackle house was painted pink, with green signs out front, an old cemetery nearby, and new housing development crowding the land on all sides. When I met Mr. Caron, his Christmas trees had grown beyond the reach of his shear and were fast becoming a forest.
Curious, it is, that while some trees evoke only a shrug, others inspire speculation, and exploration, and great trans-Atlantic expeditions, and stir the very highest of hopes. Consider the sassafras.
This could be the ultimate home away from home.
A place that is miles from civilization, inaccessible to even your craziest relatives, and isolated from anyone’s day-to-day trials and tribulations. In fact, it is almost as far out as you can get.
The ice man cometh (cameth) and his name was Frederic Tudor.
Fred was a man with a mission. He had a passionate commitment to a cause that would give anybody the chills. No member of the British monarchy (though he did hail from a notable Boston Brahmin family), Tudor was nevertheless known as the “Ice King.” He was the man that brought commercial ice to the people of this country and beyond.
It was the whale of a tale and the tail of a whale that brought me to South Beach on a crisp winter day last week.
The tail was a bit more than two feet wide and was attached to a body; a whale’s body. The rest of the story centered around this whale and its identity, though this tale did not have a happy beginning or ending. The mission at hand was to take photographs and measurements of a dead specimen that had been found on the beach.
Susie Bowman has a cedar situation.
The red cedar trees in the field behind her house are infected, which means that the apple trees in the area also may be in jeopardy. A match made in heaven these plants are not. In fact, they make a toxic twosome if they are in the right (or in this case, wrong) company.