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It is 1971, I am snowshoeing in the woods near a neighbor, Wilts Stevens. It is -14F. Wilts is 92 & has lived on the farm all his life. Suddenly, we see him ahead on the trail, looking at us, leaning on his walking stick, waiting. He smiles. We say hello. He nods in silence, surveying the trees. Turning his walking stick in the snow making it squeak, he says: "'Spect this stick will squeak for another two days, & then it'll warm up.'" We walk on.
(More: geoffreygevalt.com/portraits-e)

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