Posted on July 29, 2011 by Samara
Tina Traster is a New York Post columnist, Huffington Post blogger and essayist. Her work has appeared in magazines, newspapers, literary journals, online literary sites and on NPR. Her essays have been anthologized in three collections. Traster lives with her second husband—and soul mate—daughter, five cats, and six chickens in an old farmhouse in New York's Hudson Valley.
I was surprised to see he had no front teeth. He smiled thinly while beckoning me to enter his cluttered dining room. Musty and dank, it was a museum of lifetime accumulation. Stacks of yellowed paper, stuffed owls, clocks, a brass American bald eagle affixed to the wall. A worn checkered cloth covered a small square wooden table with spindle legs. Mr. Pulda pulled out a chair and motioned with his beefy hand for me to take a seat. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t the type of man who entertained guests. He didn’t like outsiders. Not even those who proclaimed they would help him save his farm. Mr. Pulda wanted was to be left alone to feed his cows, to tend his soybeans and corn.