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Won’t Even Notice

The ride home

Summer stretches on. It rains here and there, though never as much as promised, nor nearly as much as we need. Out early on my bike I pass fields of fresh mown hay, the smell of drying grass suffusing the air, one of those smells that feels curative in some ill-defined way except perhaps in the understanding that my life would be poorer without it. In the evenings I lie in bed and listen to the boys and their friends down in the orchard. They’ve built a fire, there’s music on someone’s truck stereo, they’re jumping in the pond, and I hear splashes and laughter and the drumbeat of a new song and I suddenly feel very old, too old, and worse yet, as if I’ve somehow misspent all those years. And perhaps in some ways I have, though I’m also sure that in other ways I haven’t, and truth be told, I think that’s about the best any of us can aspire to. Life is lived in fractions. Or that’s how it seems to me, anyhow.

The next morning I move the cows to a new piece of grass. They are sleek and fat, at their peak of summer flesh. The young heifer pauses her grazing to size me up, then moves toward me. I’ve got her trained to my affections, she lets me scratch behind her ears and along her neck. She’s a fine animal, a gift from an old friend who recently sold his herd. Now his barn’s gone, too, torn down and hauled away. Grass growing where he used to milk his cows, and I do a double take every time I drive by, looking for what’s no longer there. Though one of these days soon, I bet I won’t even notice.

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Shirts and Stickers

Pumping gas in a small town not far from home, I watch a man emerge from the store. He’s 40-ish and wearing a tee shirt that reads I bust my ass so I can bust yours but he doesn’t like much of an ass-buster, frankly, either of himself or of others. He’s tall and very thin, and as he comes closer I can see clearly the sallow hue of his face. I must be staring, because he nods to me, a not unfriendly nod, then climbs into an old Nissan sedan that starts with a mufflerless rumble and accelerates through the parking lot a good bit quicker than seems strictly necessary.

I myself am wearing my Smith’s Grocery: It’s where I get all my shit!! tee shirt, which was a birthday gift from my sons, along with a hat bearing the same slogan (I try to avoid wearing them simultaneously). Smith’s is our local general store, about three miles down the Mountain Road, and while it’s not strictly true that I get all my shit there, I do get at least a goodly portion of my shit there, and therefore I feel ok about wearing the shirt. Besides, I like the slogan. It’s not so much clever as simply correct: This is how people actually talk around here. Why sugarcoat it?

One pump over from me there’s a big F350 pickup, huge and new-ish and gleaming black, and on the tinted rear window there are two big stickers. One reads Fuckin’ Mint and the other (of course, quite naturally, it only stands to reason) says Nipples Matter. And I try to run through the scenarios – any scenario would do – whereby a reasonable-thinking adult might put Fuckin’ Mint and Nipples Matter stickers on their truck. I mean, Fuckin’ Mint, now I’m down with that. Totally. I could rock a Fuckin’ Mint sticker all day long. But the Nipples Matter one throws me – is as sexist as it seems? And is it not the very pinnacle of toxic masculinity to drive around in your jacked up F350 sporting a Nipples Matter sticker for all the world to see? How might you expect the world to respond?

Or is it possible the guy’s a dairy farmer, a consideration that offers an entirely new layer of context? Because in dairy farming, you can bet your bottom dollar that nipples matter. Indeed, they’re about the most important goddam thing in the world. And how ’bout this: Maybe it’s not even a guy driving that truck; maybe it’s a woman dairy farmer! Yes. That’s it. Gotta be. Or could be, anyway.

My pump clicks off and I round up to the nearest quarter dollar (that old habit). I’m moving slowly now, for no other reason that I want to see who’s driving that truck. But the day’s a’wasting and I’ve got better things to do than obsess over the identity of whomever owns those stickers. So I hop in my car, turn the key, and get on my way.

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Chicken Wings

Just past the Price Chopper on Route 15, heading home after meeting a guy to pick up a used chainsaw for my son unless I decide to keep it for myself, I stop for a hitchhiker. His name is Ed, and he’s in his mid-60’s I guess, long black hair going grey, old tee shirt, worn-out jeans, faded tattoos on his forearms. Smoking a very thin handrolled cigarette that’s he’s considerate enough to extinguish before entering the car. Carrying a backpack and one of those reuseable shopping tote bags full of his just-bought groceries. A deli-container of chicken wings poking out the top.

Ed lives way up East Hill one town down the road, in a cabin with his dog. He doesn’t have a car but says he might get one, though I don’t sense much commitment to the idea. I tell him I’ll take him all the way home, and this makes him very happy, because East Hill is long and steep and it’s hot out. And he’s got those wings. Plus who knows what else in that bag. As we drive, he points out houses along the way, ones he says he’s worked on over the decades. His voice is soft and I have to lean in a bit to hear him. I learn that he came to own his 10-acre parcel 26 years ago, having traded his Harley for it. Been living there ever since. Or that’s what I think he says, at least.

I drop him at the end of his driveway, which is really just a wide footpath into the woods with a chain across its entrance. Mailbox off to the side. He thanks me, and I say no problem, it’s my pleasure, and it is, in part because it’s been a long time since I picked up a hitcher and Ed’s reminded me of how much I enjoy it, that passing intimacy with a stranger whose life circumstances so often differ so drastically from my own.

And in part because even now, two days later, I like thinking about Ed and his dog in the cabin on the land he got in trade for a motorcycle, the chicken wings presumably long gone, their thin bones tossed out back into the swamp, and maybe tomorrow or the next day he’ll make the long walk down to the main road, where he’ll stick out his thumb and head back to Price Chopper for some more.

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Nothing to Do

Hey, you were warned.

At Willey’s, I buy a 50 cent fudgesicle and a stopper for the drain of the old clawfoot tub I’ve dragged out to pasture to serve as a watering vessel for the cows. In the store everyone is masked, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve worn a mask in nearly 2 weeks. How quickly things are reverting to normal. How quickly we seem to have forgotten all the ways the pandemic was going to change us.

Back in the car, I sit for a minute and eat my fudgesicle in fewer bites than strictly necessary, wishing I’d bought a second. I mean, I don’t even like them all that much, but I know a bargain when I see one. The summer people flow in and out of the store. You can spot ’em a mile distant, they carry their awayness with them like one of those regretful tattoos that can’t quite be erased. I like the summer folk. They’re relaxed, friendly. They smile a lot. They grease this little town, and lord knows we need all the greasing we can get.

At home, I fit the stopper to the tub and run water. The cows watch from their patch of shade, their big eyes blinking against gathered flies, the ground beneath them worn grassless and dusty from their lingering.The tub flows over, the water spilling over its side in a curtain, wetting the thirsty soil below. God we need rain bad. I shut off the hydrant, pull the hose from the tub. The cows are still watching, still blinking, still lingering. As if there were nothing to do but sit and wait for the rain to fall.

Haven’t shared any music in a while. Here’s a nice one from Morgan Wade.

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Strange Comfort

Bike ride scenic

Finally, rain, and everything feels right again, as if the thirst had been my own. In the morning I stand just outside the front door and watch the cows grazing on the hill, and then watch them as they notice the cats, who’ve emerged from the house in that tentative way of theirs, tails swishing, necks elongated, eyes wide, thinking this might finally be the morning danger lurks. Well. Who knows. Perhaps it could be.

I grind my coffee as I stand in the rain. It’s a hand crank grinder, and I count the revolutions. I always shoot for at least 200, though it only takes about 175 to make a cup. But I like to have a little in reserve. It’s a strange comfort, I know. It’s not raining hard, and I think that I could stand here for a long time, just watching the cows and the cats, pushing the grinder crank round and round and round ’til I’m wet through and the coffee’s all ground up. But at 200 I stop grinding and pad back into the house, my wet feet leaving prints on the tile floor of the mud room.

The cows graze some more and then lie down. The cats find no danger, and return to sleep on the couch, side-by-side, almost symmetrical. The rain goes on. It’s not even June, and summer feels so long.

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Whatever Meaning it Has

The days are long enough now that if I wake in the dark I know I’ve woken too early. Even this morning at 4:30, too soon for my tastes by 40 minutes or more, I could just discern the slimmest of openings in the night, a crack from which the day would soon emerge. I thought to go back to sleep, but the cat was mewling incessantly, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to close my eyes against the emergent light, so I stepped softly downstairs to toss the cat over the threshold and light a fire. Day after day it happens like this: The cat, the stairs, the threshold, the fire, and it’s the ever-repeating nature of this ritual, the sheer ordinariness of it, that imbue it with whatever meaning it has.

Later I ride my bicycle across a landscape of exploding green. It feels like everything is springing to life at once, and it’s a very good feeling. The late afternoon light is diffuse and the air is so, so soft, almost as if it were embedded with gossamer strands of silk. Agitated by my passing, an obese beagle runs ineffective laps inside the confines of a fenced yard. He doesn’t bark, maybe because he’s too fat to run and bark at the same time, or maybe just because he’s not into multi-tasking. He’s not the least bit threatening, and wouldn’t be even if there wasn’t that fence. I know I could kick his ass, and if for any reason that didn’t work, I know I can outrun him. My bike is fast, my legs are strong, and the road runs steadily downhill, into a valley where the dandelions are in full bloom and the air is softer still.

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Rough Measure

Early morning in the woods

In the morning I plant trees at roughly equidistant intervals along the tractor road that skirts the southern fringe of the grassy knoll behind the barn. I dig the soil with a pointed spade, loosen the dirt with my hands, set the roots gently into the hole, and backfill with a mixture of the loosened soil and compost from a plastic bucket I’ve carried with me. It is cold and damp, though from my vantage point I can see a fair distance toward the northwest, where the clouds are breaking in a way that suggests the weather might soon turn. I hope it turns. I could use it to turn.

I settle the last of the trees, scrub my hands clean in wet pasture grass, watch woodsmoke rise from the chimney of our small house. There’s only a few more mornings worth of dry firewood left to burn, then we’ll be onto whatever scraps we can muster, mostly lumber cutoffs and softwood slabs from the logs we had milled a couple summers back. My goal of having extra dry wood has eluded me once again, and I think that on some subconscious level I must know in advance exactly how much wood we’ll burn in a given year, because although I only ever take rough measure, every spring we seem to run out at exactly the same time. Which is always sooner than I’d hoped, to be sure, but also always later than presents any significant hardship.

The front door of the house opens, and our son emerges, on his way to work. I, too, have places to be, so I give my hands one more pass through the grass, rise to my feet, and get on with my day.

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Crashes

Friday evening is cold and rainy and I drive to the top of the mountain road to hike into the spot I’d discovered by ski three months prior, where I’d counted nine moose beds in an area perhaps the size of a football field. The rain is insistent and I’m soon soaked through and cold; I’ve under-dressed as usual, while simultaneously over-estimating my own sturdiness in the elements, which is also as usual. But I make it to the moose yard in rapidly diminishing daylight, night coming fast, and the mist further obscuring my vision. I’d hoped to see a moose, but now I realize I’d have to be much closer than would likely be allowed, and so I don’t look very hard and instead just ramble until I’m really too cold to carry on and it’s getting darker and I still have a 40-minute hike back to the truck.

Driving down the mountain road I come to a turned-over car, in a deep ditch, driver’s side down, the roof smashed against an abutment of soil and rock. There is no other traffic. I stop the truck, climb out. The car is not running, and the juxtaposition between the crashed vehicle and the rainy, mist-shrouded quiet in the scant remains of natural light feels ominous. I cannot see into the car; all I can see is the underside, a complicated terrain of exhaust and brake and transmission.

I call out. There’s no reply. I call again. Still no reply, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to climb atop the wreckage, where I should be able to see through the side glass, when the passenger door begins to open just a little, straight up into the air. It opens a few inches, then closes, then opens a few more inches, then closes, almost as if whoever’s inside is trying to gather their strength for the final push. And I call out again – hold on, I can help – (though I still haven’t figured my path to the top of the car) when the door opens a few inches further and a man pulls himself up and out. He’s groaning and disoriented, but ambulatory, and, to my delight, smoking a cigarette, which looks freshly lit. I can’t help but wonder if he crashed while lighting the cigarette, or if he lit the cigarette after crashing.

He jumps down from the car and stumbles into the woods, and I think he’s either drunk or in shock, it’s hard to tell which. Maybe it’s both. I ask if he’s ok. He says he’s ok, and improbably, he does seem ok. I mean, the car is fucked, there’s no two ways about it. It’s a bad crash. He makes his way over to me and I ask outright if he’s drunk and he says no, and I believe him. He doesn’t smell of alcohol and now that he’s standing near me and no longer wandering disoriented through the leafless trees, he seems quite sober. He’s still smoking that cigarette. We stand there quiet, watching the car. As if it were going anywhere. I can give you a ride, I say, at pretty much the same moment we notice the patterned flashing of emergency lights from higher up the mountain road. Someone has called in the accident, which means that someone must have passed the accident before I arrived, since no one has passed since. Which means he must have been sitting in the crashed car for a while; the emergency vehicles are from a town in the valley to the east, some 25 minutes away. So he had to have lit that cigarette after he’d crashed. I don’t know why I’m stuck on this detail, but I am.

I ask if he wants me to stay, but he says no, he’ll be ok, and so I leave just as the emergency vehicles pull up, and for starters I’m thinking about the image of him folded into the wreckage of his car, lighting a smoke and maybe trying to figure out if he’s hurt or not, and I wonder if he was just hanging out in there smoking when the car that called 911 passed. Hard to say.

And I’m thinking about the fact that this is the third bad accident I’ve been the first to discover on this very road in just the past handful of years. I wrote about one of them a few years back, it’s in the archives somewhere if you’ve got some time on your hands. The other was an elderly couple, I actually saw the crash happen, and I was able to crawl into the back seat of their car (the front doors rendered inoperable by the force of impact with the tree) and sit with them while we waited for the ambulance. The man was folded over the steering wheel making deep guttural groans, unable to form a sentence, and the woman said her arm was broken, but she was mostly worried about her husband, whom she told me had a heart condition. But honestly even without the heart condition, he didn’t sound too hot. Will you stay even after they come she asked me, after we’d been sitting together for 20 minutes or so, and I said yes, of course. Then we heard the sirens and she asked me to fix her bra strap so it didn’t fall completely off while they were pulling her out of the car. So I did, and she said thank you for staying, and I never saw them again.

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The Ache of Rain

I can feel the approaching rain in the wrist I broke when I was 12 after tripping while trying to catch a football I’d thrown high into the air. This ability to portend weather in the ache of knitted bones is a new feature of my aging body. No doubt there are many more such features to come – I’m not far from 50, after all – but for now, this is the one I notice most, and am almost grateful for, because I know it could be worse.

The rain is welcome. The ground is still thirsty from last summer’s drought, which was followed by a winter of below normal snowfall, which was then followed by a 10-day stretch in early April that might have passed for late June, the seasons co-mingling as the sugarmakers gathered the last run of sap and the poplars budded out. I’d wake in the night and listen to the wood frogs, open my eyes for a minute to the moonlight shining through the window.

I’m ready for the change of season. I guess we all are. Who doesn’t want to hear the wood frogs, see the grass green, watch the buds emerge, boil the last sap, even feel the ache of rain in their bones? I’ll take it all, and then some: Ride the bike, swim the pond, pull the weeds, ditch the damn mask. Set the cows to pasture and stand for a minute in their midst, listening as they chew that new grass.

And then (because winter is never far away), finish stacking the damn firewood.

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Over the Land

View from the kitchen table, morning of April 22, 2021

Early in the evening I walk a half-mile to the town hall for a select board meeting. It’s snowing hard. The snow catches in the rough nap of my jacket and accumulates on the tops of my boots. The road is unplowed and I walk straight down its middle because that’s what passes for excitement these days. Coming home I spot a truck off the road at the corner just past the one-way bridge, and quicken my pace, because the opportunity to pull someone out of a ditch is even more exciting than walking down the middle of the road in an April snowstorm. But by the time I reach the stuck truck, another truck has stopped and a tow strap is being strung between the two vehicles. There’s nothing to do but idly watch and secretly hope that Truck A is too stuck for Truck B to extract it and I’ll have reason to jog home for the tractor and a chain. It’s been a lean year for pulling rigs from ditches – I haven’t notched a single one, come to think of it – and lord knows I need a little something to juice the adrenals.

Alas, the pull goes down without a hitch, and I continue on my ambling way, step-by-step through the insistent squall, six-inches or more already, the snow that takes the snow, the poor man’s fertilizer, the softest, quietest quilt draped lightly over the land.