Tag: vermont

Learning to Look

Mountain

Just about a year ago, I began drawing again.

Once upon a time I drew all the time.  I thought I would draw for my life at one point.  But, like so many adolescent fantasies, it surrendered to reality. 

Last year I joined a writing group at Hubbard Hall, a local community theatre and art center in Cambridge, NY and woke up to a different reality.  Initially intending to focus on writers in rural areas, the group has evolved into a search for authenticity in our work and our lives.  For me that meant making the choice to follow more earnestly my lifelong dream of being a writer and, simultaneously, to revive a dream that made art a part of my life again.  It’s been life changing in many ways, some of which I’m still discovering.

Thanks to my primary inspiration – my family – I’ve found my own drawing groove over the last year.  Perspective and landscapes were never my strong suits, but when the small towns are covered with snow or the hills are drenched in green, Vermont kickstarts my creativity, and I get more adventurous.  Learning to draw them has taught me the need to truly see them, but it’s also taught me to look.  

Trying to capture the snow-covered mountains meant studying them first thing in the morning when the powder dusted the evergreens, but it also forced me to consider the naked maple trees, thrown into relief against a dusky pink winter sky when the wind had swept their limbs clean.  I got comfortable scribbling craggy branches in my sketchbook and began seeking out the silhouettes during the often fiery sunsets.  I even learned to find beauty in the overcast grey that colors most of our winters.  Now, as spring coaxes tiny green buds from tree branches and the longer days turn thatch-colored fields into green and yellow meadows, I’m trying out a new set of skills with my pencils.  And I’m learning, yet again, not just to see the details in the everyday inspirations.  I’m also learning to find inspiration in everyday places and moments.

Worth Repeating

Blog worth repeating

The willow trees near the main road are sending out shoots of yellow green, and it’s clear the mountains are about to explode in a myriad of greens.  For now, though, the daffodils and the tiny sunlit green dots on the trees cast a glow over our small town.  

The Dairy Bar is open now, and people are stopping in for ice cream after Little League or for a sunny batter-dipped dinner after work.  The air is thick with the smell of manure-plowed fields and fruit blossoms.  At the market, the pansies are being replaced by petunias as the days grow longer, and bales of straw are being stacked for gardeners emerging from their hibernation.  

I’m watching a story that’s being told again in small towns across the country.  I’ve seen it unfold over ten times now, and it’s a tale that never gets old.

Little Miracles

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It’s always an event when we’re not late getting out the door to school.  I can count on one hand the times Thing1 has been about to rush out the door without a backpack or Thing2 had to go back to their room to grab one more action figure for show-and-tell.  So when we got out the door this morning with both backpacks fully packed, homework finished, and two boys breakfasted and brushed (Mom eats after the chaos), it was nothing short of a minor miracle.

We bundled ourselves into the car and headed out the driveway.  We go the same way everyday, and most days I slow a bit as we approach the little horse farm at the bottom of our dirt road.  Today, I stopped.

Over the last week, Mother Nature had put away the pinky-browns and blues she’d been using during mud season and pulled out her spring palette.  As we descended, the morning sun bathed the hill in gold, and we all noticed how the grass had suddenly become green.  A few daffodils were poking through the leaves by the fence that runs along the road, reminding us that, whatever else is happening in the world, it’s still April.  I exhaled again and snapped a quick pic before rebooting the morning school run.  

There are more mornings than not that I have to stop and snap a few photos of this hill and the tiny horse farm framed by the rounded mountains.  Part of me is always surprised that, after over ten years living on this road, the scenery still takes my breath away.  It’s the answer to a question I started as a teenager while visiting southern Bavaria with friends of the family.

Our friends had a vacation home in one of the centuries-old towns that dots that mountainous regions.  We were there in the summer, and the crystal blue lakes and then-snowcapped Alps in the back ground constantly took my breath away.  I always wondered, though, if living with that beauty everyday would minimize its impact.  Today, as I’m snapping pictures and smiling on my way to school, I’m thinking once again about how the answer to that question is still one my favorite daily miracles.

Signs of Spring

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We’re still getting the nightly dusting of snow, but it melts quickly these days.  White predominates in our yard, but the crocuses have begun to emerge from the ground.  And even as the cold is slow to relinquish its hegemony, it can’t prevent the longer days and, the return of the roadside egg stand as our neighbors chickens begin to produce again.

 

Tis the Season

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We’re well into the first full week of spring and snow still covers our yard.  It’s almost time to plant peas, and my garden is a slushy mess.  The fact that Vermont’s gardening season commenced at least a week or three behind the calendars in every gardening book (even one or two written by Vermonters) once caused me consternation.   By March, I’m ready to get out of the house and start digging.  

A decade of digging later, however, I’ve learned to relax about this thing I absolutely can’t control.  My springtime serenity stems from two sources.  The first comes from observing the long-term effects of that saturating late winter snow pac.  Soggy in spring but still moist enough to prevent the need for watering well into summer, I’ve come to trust that Mother Nature knows what she’s doing.  The other source of my calm comes from discovering a spring signal far more reliable (and delicious) than a date circled on my calendar. 

The sap buckets start appearing in late January.  The large maple syrup operations set long blue tap lines that run from tree to tree and then into huge covered containers, but there are still plenty of do-it-yourselfer’s and small operators who use the old-fashioned taps and buckets that are symbolic of the season.  

We made maple syrup a few years in a row.  Our buckets were recycled milk jugs.  We collected sap for days and made exactly one gallon (you need 32 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup) on our old wood stove.  Our old house was drafty enough that we didn’t mind turning our kitchen into a sauna for a few days, and it was the best maple syrup we ever tasted.  

We buy our syrup now, and, even though it’s available at even the smallest producers through most of the year, picking up a gallon or two at the end of March has become as much a ritual as taking Thing2 to see Santa at the town Christmas party or planting my peas in soggy spring soil.

The steam started pouring from the sugar houses in late winter.  Even now, the nighttime temperatures are still mostly in the freezing range even as the days get warmer, and the sap still flows.  Last weekend, the first weekend in spring, the sugar houses opened their doors to tasters and tours, but it was just a date on the calendar.  For me, it won’t be until the sap slows that spring will really begin.  It’s when the sap buckets along our road come down.

 It doesn’t make the spring season any less welcome, but it does make it a little bittersweet.

 

Snow Days

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Christmas comes several time each year at our house.  We call those extra Christmas days snow days.  They’re the only other winter days that see both boys out of bed before dawn as they race to the internet to check school closing, waiting to see if the Snow Fairy has brought them candy or coal.

Thing2 got candy last night.  It was most likely due to a wind-related power outage than the snowfall we got last night that barely qualifies as a dusting by Vermont standards.  Thing1 got a lump of coal.

Normally I require hard core proof of illness for either imp to stay home.  More snow may be on the way, however that could cause an early closure.  Tonight’s homework is also already done. So, instead of giving Thing1 his morning marching orders, I toss his coal into the roaring wood stove and order him to stand down.  

I have the day off, and with both boys home, it’s more than an impromptu weekend.  It really is a holiday.

Two Makes Chrysalis

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Lately, the company I work for has had the lucky misfortune of having too much business.  For the Tech Support staff, this has meant confining ourselves to our computers almost from dawn till dusk.  Our computers are all at our homes, but the long days, coupled with winter weather and roads have helped spin a thick cocoon around our earth-sheltered house.  I am not naturally extroverted, so retreating behind a protective shell of snow and work has been quite comfortable.  It was only when I responded to an invitation from another confined friend that I realized that my insular shell was missing something.  

I am ashamed to say, that in the months since knee surgery has confined my friend, I have only been to visit at the beginning to bring flowers picked by our youngest son.  When the phone rang last week, I answered with a mix of happiness and guilt.  By the time I hung up, guilt was mostly gone and I was looking forward to a date on Friday afternoon after work.

Friday morning was another grey winter work day, and I was really excited to go have talk and tea at the end of it.  A light snow had just begun to form a blanket over the roads and mountains when I headed down the road to my friend’s house.  For a brief moment, I had to quell my natural instinct to return to my cocoon.  A flare of guilt kept my car moving forward, however, and I would be glad it did.

My friend and I were once in a writing group together, and grew quite close at the time.  We may not see each other for months except passing on the road or at the country store, but there is rarely any uncomfortable silence when we get back together.  Friday was no exception.  

I let myself in through the mudroom door and, after hugs, we remarked on the changes in each other’s hair and physiques before retreating back to my friend’s cozy bedroom behind the kitchen for a huddle.  I took a quick look at my clock – 4ish it was – knowing I had to leave by 5 to get to the grocery store before dark and settled into a comfy chair.

The kettle on the wood stove hummed every now, serenading us as we talked of doctors and cats and neighbors’s recent departures and returns.  Through the window, I could see the now-heavier snow that only seemed to insulate us more as we talked of writing and iPads and husbands.  

I had not written a word all day – a late Thursday night and early start at work had put the kibosh on creative expression for 48 hours.  I knew the weekend schedule would not allow for much writing or drawing, but by the time I stood up from my chair and made a plan to visit again next week, I felt my soul had been fed.  And the feeding of it guaranteed that when the time permitted, the work I want to do will happen and happily.

It was mostly dark and well after 6pm when I stepped out into the wet snow.  There was a snowy trip to the grocery store ahead before I returned to my cave.  Dark, snowy drives usually fill me with trepidation.  This one, however, was a few minutes more of quiet, and I used it to relish the enlightenment I had found in the fellowship my friend and I had reformed.  

Now, back in my cocoon, it’s warm and safe, as always.  But I will not wait months again before I return to the chrysalis where ideas and friendship grow.  

Of Mountains and Mud

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There is little snow on Minister Hill this winter, and part of me has been mourning the absence of sledding and snowshoeing.  The road down our hill is mostly mud now.  

Navigating the deep oozing ruts adds another five minutes to every little venture.  Today, though, even the sight of the nearly naked mountains rising up over the muck as I drove down the hill was enough to slow our trip to the ice rink even further.  If the road had been better, I would have worked harder to pilot and gawk at the same time, but the mud nearly forced me to a stop several times.  I snapped off a couple photos, figuring I would do a sketch while I watched the kids during school skate.  

We returned a few hours later to a road even more scarred from a wintry mix and other vehicles.  I was a few sketches richer.  Thing1, my twelve-year-old, increasingly pensive as he approaches adolescence, was cheerful after racing around a rink for two hours.  Thing2, my six-year-old whose normal state is chatter and dance, was nearly asleep from his exertions.  

The mud up our mountain, earlier the guardian of my mindfulness of the mountains, was now just another obstacle between us and home.  Thing1 began pointing out the least treacherous parts, and the car’s rumble seat imitation began to rouse my younger passenger in the back seat.  As we passed the horse farm that lies just below our driveway, the ruts in the muck became deep slick channels, and my only option was to keep accelerating and let the edges of the chasms help me find the least resistance.  

Ten feet later, as the swells in the silt became more navigable, I was glad I hadn’t had much for lunch.  I glanced at Thing1 who was now grinning and looking very twelve.  In the rear view mirror, I could see Thing2 continuing to bounce, even though the car had stopped.

“Can we go again?” he asked, knowing full well that we will be ‘going again’ tomorrow.  But tomorrow morning, when we head out on our slimy roller coaster ride, I’ll remember that, while the coasting has it’s appeal, the climb can be pretty fun too.

On the Street Where I Live

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It’s been four or five days now since a fertilizer bomb was detonated somewhere on the mountain across from ours.  While the local paper (two towns away) hasn’t picked up the story yet, it was a hot topic for many people at our local country store on Sunday.  Curiosity and concern were still high on Monday, but by Tuesday it was clear that fear was already losing its grip on many of us .

I’m still worried, of course.  Vermont isn’t at war as far as any of us know, so a bomb is not what we’re expecting to hear at eight o’ clock at night.  I am still waiting for some scrap of comforting information.  Even in the absence of information, however, I’m managing to find signs that this town (whose motto is ‘Whatever happens here stays here… But nothing ever happens here’) has managed to put a serious dent in my once Olympic-caliber capacity for agonizing over every potential problem.  There were two of those signs yesterday.

The first one had me trying to remember to breathe.  Mother Nature had been in her paintbox the night before.  After wiping her canvas clean with an inch of rain, she cooled things down.  Then, under cover of night, she brought out her fattest paint brush and daubed just enough white powdery paint over the mountains to cover but not completely obscure the trees and rocks.   I only noticed her work after I’d finished scraping the car and getting six-year-old Thing2 on the road to winter camp.  We scaled the long icy slope of our driveway, and then turned onto the road heading towards the horse farm at the bottom of our road.

The road makes a beautiful S-curve as we get closer.  A few isolated trees frame the rolling hills and the buildings of the farm perfectly, and a day doesn’t go by when I think what a perfect painting it would make.   Yesterday we hit the S-curve just as low purple and white clouds were skimming the powered mountains that rise up behind the farm.  It was breathtaking.  I forgot, for a moment, that we were late, that my foot was still on the gas, and even that a bomb had ever gone off on the mountain across from ours.

When I recovered my breath and remembered to slow down before we hit the more adventurous part of the mud pit we call a road, I drew Thing2’s attention to the scene ahead of us.  We slowly descended the hill, and the painting seemed to envelope us.  Thing2 spoke first after we had passed the farm.

“Can you believe we get to live here all the time?”  He asked.  I couldn’t, and all my recent mutterings that we should move somewhere safer to the middle of nowhere (redundant really) shattered like dust falling with the snow.

The second sign was more subtle, but when I finally saw it, was just as powerful.

The Big Guy went in the afternoon to Hubbard Hall, our local community theatre and art center in Cambridge, NY to pick up Thing2 at his winter break workshop.  Caught up in the excitement of viewing Thing2’s art projects, the nearly empty gas tank in the car slipped his mind, and they headed home. They were almost home when the gas ran out.  Fortunately, a neighbor spotted them quickly and brought them the rest of the way home.  The Big Guy borrowed my car to go get a can of gas for the vehicle still on the side of the road.

He was gone not five minutes when we heard a truck in the driveway.  Positive he couldn’t have filled up the car that quickly, we wondered who it could be.  Before I could get up from the kitchen table (my home office – very glamorous), Thing2 had gone into the mudroom to answer the door.  I had forgotten to lock the outside door again, however, and I suddenly heard a deep voice talking to my son.  It was another neighbor who had seen the car by the road and popped down to see if we needed help.  I told him we were all set and thanked him for checking on us.  Thing2 threatened to entrap him with endless cheerful banter, but the neighbor just smiled at him good-naturedly and waved goodbye to all of us.

I was not yet at the end of my work day and, forgetting to lock the door again, sat back down at the table to finish my shift.  Then the phone rang.  It was another neighbor from across the valley checking to see if we needed any help with the car.  I gave him the same answer, thanked him and hung up.   Before the phone touched the table, however, it rang again.  This time it was our neighbor at the top of our driveway who had seen the car.  I hung up a few minutes later, smiling and thinking that however loud one misguided kook might be, he doesn’t outnumber the ‘good guys’ in this tiny little town.

I realize it’s the same every city.  The ones making the bombs – regardless of their form – are the loudest, but they aren’t the majority.  They can cause havoc with your sense of peace if you let them, however.  I’m still hoping for news about our incident, but by the time the Big Guy returned with my keys, I had seen the second sign.  It wasn’t in the calls from caring neighbors.  It was the fact that, thanks to this town, I’m slowly learning to live my life without locked doors.

 

Lost Weekend

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Across the state, schools had closed on Friday.  Store shelves were being cleared as people prepared for a day of camping in on Saturday.  I stocked the pantry with chips and dip, the fridge with a massive casserole and whipped cream for hot cocoa.  Thing1 and Thing2 made sure their sleds were ready, and the wood bin was overflowing.

But, Saturday morning, the snow had not materialized.  We were expecting a blizzard and barely got a dusting in our little corner of Vermont (4-6 in Vermont is a dusting).  As we gazed out at the trees already stripped of snow by the howling wind, our entire family felt ripped off by the weather industry.

Everything had been canceled for Saturday already – basketball, breakfast out – and with a still-falling mercury, the Big Guy and I quickly decided to proceed with the camp-in as planned.  We fired up the DVD player and began our day-long homage to sloth.

I set out cereal and cinnamon buns at breakfast, and cheese and crackers and other snacks at lunch.  As soon as one of us got the notion to do something productive the rest of the family would intervene, re-issuing the proclamation that today was about doing nothing.  Computers were shuttered, homework was put away, and the phone was ignored.  The conversation never became more serious than debating whether there are more Monty Python or Tolkien references in Futurama.  Our bodies and our brains were only aware of the red hot stove and the person snuggling on the sofa next to us.

It was pointless.  It was unproductive, and it was glorious.