Hey there, Erving,
To talk about you is to talk about the past, because that is all you have left of human civilization

and that is why I love you.

I love you Erving, the way we love ancestors that are so far gone they couldn't have ever been assholes that hit their wives.

I love that you are still there, despite having little reason or purpose for people.

Remember when I say mean hurtful things about you, my love, it's always the people peopling you, not you, not the land that upset me.

You are rugged and rough. You are a land of thin soil over shale and boulder left by a passing glacier, except where you touch water.

When you touch water, Erving - you are majesty. You are the reason humans take up oil painting and watercolor and photography.

We abhor the idea that the sunlight is fleeting that the leaves will not stay in place or in color. We are wistful and want to hold on.
But, just like you loving Erving, we can't hang on.

Life is motion. For people, 100 years ago, life moved in Erving...but it kept on moving

like the Mighty Millers and Keyup brook it wouldn't quit, and like a bend in the kill a town got stuck.

Who would guess that paper wouldn't always be critical?

Who would know that the company store can also fold?

Who might have foreseen that international capitalistic competition could prove too much for fifteen hundred or so souls?

Who buys a death bed? Dwight asked that and when I meet people who move to Erving, that's when I know the answer.