Devil’s Hill is a beautiful hike on an autumn day. A little sign on a dirt road above Peacham Village leads you to the trail. Your reward will be a lofty view of rolling hills in all their splendid fall color. As you stand on the weathered stone outcropping, look to the more immediate surroundings and you may see pledges of love painstakingly etched into stone or carved into the twisted bark of a windswept pine tree, there for the mountain to hold and keep.

I wrote this love song as a young man without the benefit of age or experience. It has been in my repertoire for years and at last I have finally grown into it. My hands are callused; my life is written in these lines of age and just when I think I’ve seen it all, I do get surprised.

To live here you must embrace winter. If you have ever been outside when it’s so cold the trees crack, the snow squeaks and the air sparkles in the moonlight, then you know how magical this season can be. So put your coat on and go outside, this dance is on me.

On October 30th, 2024, after twenty-four years delivering the mail to neighbors in my hometown, I took my last ride around the route. Though it was bittersweet, my last day was full of folks waiting at their mailbox to wish me well and to inquire of my future plans. I collected a stack of cards and letters of appreciation for a job well done. There was even a surprise party planned in my honor when I returned from my rounds. I was very moved. This song is for everyone who kept their eye out for the little blue car with the blinking light, rain or snow or gloom of night.

The old family farm is as iconic to the state of Vermont as maple syrup and fields of Holstein cattle. The shortage of willing workers combined with the high cost of equipment amid fluctuating and unstable markets have left this once thriving family industry on the verge of extinction. I’ve witnessed this personally and I’ll bet you have too. If you have ever thrown a hay bale on a hot summer day or had a glass of fresh whole milk straight from the bulk tank this song is for you.

Wilfred was the first person I ever played music with. He was a kindly old man who took the time to teach a young boy how to play some classic country songs. On Sundays, he would drive me around the back roads visiting folks and playing music. This was also my introduction to performing in front of people. I think Wilfred would be very proud to have a song written about him.

Money was always tight growing up but I remember my father giving my mother a single red rose every year on Valentine's Day. She always said that simple gift meant more to her than diamonds or pearls ever could.

Walk in the woods most anywhere around here and you will find stone walls surrounding long neglected fields now grown to forest. You may even find an old cellar hole, its timbers rotted away leaving only a moss-covered stone foundation. I wonder about the lives of the people who lived here and how difficult it must have been to make a living in this rocky soil. Winters were harsh and isolating, summer is short and labor intensive. At some point this home was abandoned and forgotten. I guess some dreams are too hard to hold.

A song about a difficult and emotional time when the better angels came forward to comfort and guide us through our grief. These lyrics woke me from a dream and I could get no rest that night until they were committed to paper.

If love were a painter’s pallet, what color would you be? Being a lover of watercolor painting certainly influenced the writing of this song.

I wrote this song after going to a high school reunion, class of 1977. It was great to reminisce with old friends, most of whom I hadn’t seen since our graduation day so many years ago. The bond of such a long-shared history touched something deep in me that night and made me appreciate my old friends.

I was there when my mother turned the key for the last time at the family home on Joe’s Pond. As we were leaving, she took a silver necklace depicting the Virgin Mary and saying a little prayer, buried it by the front step. I still drive by the old home every now and then. I know every inch of the shoreline, every tree, the secret path through the marsh. I still have memories there. I often wonder if my mother’s necklace is still by the front door, hidden and blessing that home.

I never owned a car in high school but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get around. My guitar and I walked untold miles along the roads here in the North Country. The weather never seemed to deter me nor did the clock. I would often find myself in the wee hours of the morning far from home walking a stretch of desolate highway, wet and cold with my thumb in the air. Sometimes it was a girl that motivated me, more often it was the promise of a hot jam session. Looking back, I realize I have never been or ever will be as free as I was then.

Pam was one of those rare friends from high school that always stayed close. She had a powerful singing voice and together we started the band Pickin’ Up Steam in 1980. It was a wild ride from dance halls and honkytonks all the way to the stage of the new Grand Old Opry in Nashville, Tennessee back in 1982. Our families shared a camp on Harvey’s Lake and would spend our leisure time watching the kids swim, eating good food and singing around the campfire. Those were great days. Pam passed in 2011.