Cloudy with occasional rain...mainly this evening. Low 48F. Winds NNW at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of rain 100%. Rainfall near a quarter of an inch..

Cloudy with occasional rain...mainly this evening. Low 48F. Winds NNW at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of rain 100%. Rainfall near a quarter of an inch.

Halifax’s homesteading storyteller, Tristan Roberts, with his family and many wise old trees on his farm this spring.

Halifax’s homesteading storyteller, Tristan Roberts, with his family and many wise old trees on his farm this spring.

My 10-year-old calls me a “wise old tree.”

Every time he does, it touches my soul and crinkles my laugh lines. Being a parent isn’t easy for anyone. I try where I can to use its challenges as a whetstone to clarify and sharpen who I am. The joy and presence I stand for.

I know that my son appreciates it because he thanked me. Sitting under a hemlock tree on Saturday morning, he said he appreciated my advice. Even when it annoys him, he said, he can tell I care. And I love that in calling me an “old tree” he’s both laughing at my age and also, maybe, feeling me with him in my next life.

Over the hill at 43, I’m looking for more ways to be more useful. One is I write down stories.

Not to persuade or to amuse. I do it to leave bread crumbs. This one’s for my son, if he ever needs a mid-course correction like I did this winter.

My friends have an adorable 3-year-old boy, but had no babysitter for their seventh wedding anniversary on Sunday. I twisted my buddy’s arm, told him I was free all evening. If they wanted to stay out, I’ve read a kid to sleep once or twice.

How could you not love hanging out with this boy? He noticed me looking at the jackalope, a bunny head with deer antlers mounted on the wall. He offered an explanation.

“He used to be alive but then he got hunted,” he said as if he was talking about his dried-up play-doh. No big deal.

I wanted to tell him that the jackalope is a mythical creature, much like affordable childcare that pays a living wage. I wanted to tell him that the jackrabbit-antelope mashup was invented as a gag by Wyoming taxidermists in the 1930s. (A time when our ancestors got creative with what they had to work with.)

But I remembered that I had entered his world for the length of a dinner date, and so I turned off my grownup brain and suggested we go outside. Soon we were out on the driveway, with him doing bike tricks despite the “bike jam” he made me aware of. “There’s 19 bikes,” he pointed.

He’s a budding Vermonter, and more unique than any 3-year-old I’ve hung out with since my nephew, who’s a very unique child, just turned 4.

Did I catch any of you? I baited that last sentence so editorial-minded readers would intervene. “‘Unique’ means singular,” the wordsmiths will say. “You can’t describe something as ‘more unique,’ or ‘very.’”

“How about ‘unusual’?” they say, thesaurus in hand.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to call a kid “unusual.” Anyway, the true redundancy is “unique child.”

We all start off different in some way. Then society and culture tell us how to fit in, how to pick a lane and check off the markers of success. That was me just now. A 3-year-old had just opened a little bit of his world to me. And I was about to read him the Wikipedia entry on jackalopes.

That’s also been my life up to 43. Checking boxes that I thought meant success. Comfortable desk job. Salary. Benefits. Remote, flexible, mission-driven work. I made a difference and also made IRA contributions most years.

But I had abandoned parts of myself in the process.

Since I was at least 5, I’ve loved to tell stories. A shy kid, I wrote them down in a spiral notebook. The first ones were paragraph length. By age 10 I’d graduated to typing pages and pages on the boxy PC my dad would bring home from his job.

No sooner was I a writer, than I also became an editor. I’d written “Storys” in pencil on the green notebook cover. Sometime after learning about plurals ending in -y, I crossed it out, wrote “Stories.”

I left behind my own stories. I got paid to write press releases and edit other people’s writing. I landed jobs and got promoted as a technical writer, assigned to research and write guides to complex topics in sustainability.

In an earlier draft of this essay I reviewed in detail my two-decade career. But my girlfriend, who’s seen my resumé before and who reminds me at bedtime to dream in color, said it was boring. I don’t want to write boring stories, so I’ll cut to the chase.

In February I posted “Retired Storyteller” as my job title in LinkedIn. If I had more space, I might have written: “Tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine. Let’s go for a bike ride and throw the ball for the dog and see what comes along.”

I don’t know how long I can make it last. Most Vermonters I know have two or three or four ways they make ends meet. I’m no exception.

I’m consulting part-time for my former full-time client, while keeping a home-equity line of credit for backup. The Halifax Select Board and the Reformer each pay a stipend. But mostly I’m keeping my calendar free for last-ditch babysitting, mowing the pasture, and some travel. I’m asking questions of all kinds of people that I don’t know the answers to. I’m writing down the stories as bread crumbs for my son.

People can get called out of retirement, too. I filed last month to run for Vermont State Representative. The hiring process involves an August primary and the November election.

Before filing, I asked legislators if the job changed them. “Could you still be yourself?” I asked.

As in, I decide who I am. And voters will decide if they want to elect me.

I’m a retired storyteller, wise old tree, boyfriend, homesteader, and die-hard believer in our small Vermont towns. I’m Tristan Roberts and I’m one of a kind.

Our one-of-a-kind country gave me the freedom and low interest rates to do all that. But I don’t take it for granted. Lady Liberty is only on one face of the classic American Eagle coin.

The other side says E pluribus unum. Official sources translate it from Latin as “Out of many, one.” But if you ask me, it means “Democracy dies if we don’t step up and serve. Find your unique talent and make that your duty.”

If author Tristan Roberts’ son ever gets curious about why he filed last month to run for Vermont State Representative for Windham-6, he could read the announcement at tristanroberts.org, and also sign up for a candidate newsletter.

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