Not far from where I live in east central Illinois, the father of Abraham Lincoln lies buried. Though I've lived out here in this open land for more than two decades, I had not visited Thomas Lincoln's grave until last year, after my father died. He is buried in the east where I'm from, and I guess I needed a nearby place to mourn.   continue

           "It had been a good day, a memorable one, in fact. It was Memorial Day, after all, but for Luke Burchard, this day set aside for the nation to remember had always been one he'd rather forget.   continue

           "A couple of springs ago, my daughter and I took a bus from Thessaloniki in northern Greece over the mountains to Istanbul. The trip was ghastly. In an effort to save some money, I'd found us seats on a local—a big mistake.   continue

           "Guernsey —that's an odd name to have," said the bespectacled teller, squinting at my passport. And so it is, back in the United States where there are not many of us, but it shouldn't be too strange a name here, I thought —not here on Guernsey Island.   continue

           I am sitting in a one bedroom cabin made of spruce logs and heated by small chunks of birch I split in the brief light of yesterday afternoon. It is mid-December and light is diminishing everywhere in the northern hemisphere, but here, sixteen miles northeast of Fairbanks, Alaska, light is like the grapefruit I bought a few days ago: rare and precious and something you crave no matter the cost.   continue