I write personal essays about fathering alone, blended families, money, and the cost of keeping a promise.

I was raised to work. From twelve, I spent summers on lobster boats on the Long Island Sound and winters swinging a maul to split wood. My mother was liberal, my father conservative, and I learned early to turn the volume down when the noise gets loud.

Two things run through most of what I write. Water, from those boats to canoes on Virginia rivers to sitting on a beach doing nothing but listening. And mountains, mostly the Blue Ridge, which is the closest thing I have to a definition of home.

I garden because my mother did. I spent hours in her flower beds as a boy, cutting and arranging. I still fill the house with flowers.

I build and fix things because my father did. I restored my 1890s home; I doubt I will do that again.

I am raising my daughter and son to do both.