We’re on the morning school run. Lucy, Turner, and I are singing the family “Yerpy-derp” song, because that’s what we do when we’re stuck behind slow-moving vehicles. Our drive includes a 12-mile detour to the nearest open bridge and another 10 miles down the Connecticut River Valley’s eastern side, past fields and ponds and the late, great, John O’Brien’s tree farm. The Lyme town office slips by on the left, and then the church, and soon the kids are waving at the Northern Woodlands sign as we pass on the opposite side of the Common.
Every morning, we bet on when we’ll arrive at school. Lucy always chooses the latest time, and because of this she is always hoping for trouble. Slow cars and side-by-side bikers, flocks of wild turkeys sauntering across the pavement – any of these is enough to turn a 7:56 loss into a 7:58 win.
This morning, we’re stuck behind a tractor and a long stretch of double-yellow lines. “Yerpy-derp-Yerpity derp,” Lucy crows. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to get to the office in time for my first meeting.
Leading Northern Woodlands has been one of the great adventures of my life, and has overlapped with the greatest one: parenting young children. Lucy was 2 years old when I started, Turner a poorly kept secret. I didn’t sleep much during the first few years, but I’m so grateful for all of it – for the deep friendships and mentors, the guidance of a consistently excellent board of directors and three outstanding board presidents (Julia Emlen, Richard Carbonetti, and Robert Cowden), and so many memorable experiences.
What other job would allow me to spend an afternoon walking among room-sized patches of yellow lady’s slippers, play with logging machinery, and sip wine with some of my favorite writers as a hickory horned devil caterpillar crawled up my arm? My husband and I still talk about the night our family drove up to North Branch Nature Center, and the staff let the kids hold a saw-whet owl. Some of my fondest memories are simple ones: time with Emily, J, Meghan, Nancy, Rebecca, and the office mascot/muse, Percy the Dog; fun phone chats with Northern Woodlands readers; walks with foresters and landowners through what Laura French, quoted in this issue’s Stewardship Story article, so aptly describes as “awesome, but average” woodlands that someone knows deeply, and cherishes.
Slowed by the tractor, we reach the school with only 2 minutes to spare. Lucy wins. Mr. Morrissey, the principal, is standing at the curb, greeting stragglers with his daily “bad dad joke.” Laughing, both kids rush past him, hands clamped over their ears, and I think: I’m going to miss this. The Lyme bridge will re-open. My brave, green-eyed wonder of a girl is fledging to high school. I’m turning the page on a job that I love.
Thirty years ago, Stephen Long and Virginia Barlow set out to create a magazine and, against all odds, succeeded. Twelve years ago, I came along and, with help from so many of you, found my place. Thank you for being part of my life, and my family’s life. And my warmest welcome to the new executive director! At the time I’m writing this column, we haven’t announced their name yet, so I’ll end with this promise: Northern Woodlands is in good hands.