Water

April 10th. What I learned about snow: It falls and settles in the crannies and undulations of the land. You never know just what depth you will encounter. Even on a flat field, you don’t know.

Its melting is unpredictable. Why here and not there. Why this sunny spot still thickly covered? And when the melt comes that ushers in the spring, you can push through all kinds—ice, “corn snow” (which is kerneled), “rotten snow” (which is all structure and no strength), slush and water—in a single brief expedition, as I did today.

I just came back from a walk back into one of my deep places of mind. I went outside after a murky day and roamed in the twilight the great flat flood caused by the roaring snow-melt river. The water has eliminated the steep river banks that carve into our valley floor. Now all is flat, the same level, so water spreads wide and wide. I stood alone in all the water in the expanse of fields under the sky. I took position, not where the river bank usually is, but pushed back by water to where the grass used to be and will be again, and absorbed the roar. The water included my feet in tall rubber boots. Just being there, keeping the river company and vice versa, and witnessing this time in the river’s life and season. When I was little we lived near a river and April was then, too, the time of dangerous fast water and then, too, I used to just stand there and that was enough.

On this walk I disturbed a beaver who flung itself into the water like a kid doing a cannonball, with great splash and no dignity. Out in the current it gave a scolding slap of its tail on the water, then disappeared in the current. Geese flew in, honking on the intake and outtake of breath like an old Model T’s horn, and making their own big splash on the shallow water of one of the new field-lakes. Ducks made their rude complaints as they flew by on their low horizontal trajectory. The water creatures—those adapted to dealing with floods—are out in force. This valley, after the glacier left it, was a gigantic lake called by geologists Lake Hitchcock. It was an arm of the lake that became the Connecticut River —and it was 750 feet deep. It filled the valley to almost to the tops of the hills. This afternoon Mark and I drove the length of it down to Bethel, an eight-mile wonderland of new, graceful shallow lakes and islands at the base of the steep hills. Imagine the watercolors of Turner and the pastorals of the Hudson River School and the English landscape artists, all of which celebrated the great willows leaning out over delicate rivers and lakes.

This river is high. The covered bridge in South Randolph had maybe a foot clearance at 6:30PM. We might get some rain tomorrow—what will happen? Surely they have made that bridge to last. At another point, in the area I call the water meadows though they are usually dry, the water covered the road. A temporary sign proclaimed, “HIGH WATER/one lane traffic” and we drove through on the shallow part, the water splashing over our windshield in a torrent. It was splendid.

Love, Josie

Negotiation With a Local

It’s early in the morning and early in April. At 7:20, the sun has just cleared Tunbridge Hill and flooded the house with long shafts of light. These mornings, the valley trees present tiny lines of light spilling in all directions: each twig is covered in rime and lit by the new sun. Though the fields are still socked in with snow, and the isolated living room I don’t heat is only 56 degrees, I nestle comfortably in here because of the sun’s strong warmth. Beauty is more than what the eye beholds.

We bought a farm trailer this past week, one to pull behind the tractor for manure and such. Here is how it happened:

Brookfield is the next town north, an idyllic dirt-road village with a floating bridge and a great restaurant. A mill pond and its waterfalls and streams flow right through the village. Funky old Vermonters’ crumbling houses sit across the road from new-comers’ revitalizations such as ours. Driving through a month ago, I spotted a rusty old trailer with “for sale” on it buried in the snowpack. Saw another one, too, still mostly submerged. So I approached the house, an enchanting cottage, picket-fence surround, sitting by a stream, little footbridges and all—and stepped onto a rotting porch with two grimy doors. I peered in one and saw jumbles of junk, and chickens milling. I boldly knocked on the other. An old woman shuffled across a wooden floor that had not seen a wash or polish in decades, and opened the door, vacant-faced. I asked about the trailer and she still stood there. “Leonard!” she called weakly, then stepped aside. I saw a brown, gray interior, a round old table heaped with newspapers. On dingy floral wallpaper hung a print of Old Dog Tray, and the obligatory picture of a country lane tilted on its nail. A tabby cat made for my ankles, purring importunately. A tall old man, somewhat toothless, appeared. “$400,” he told me, and “t’other is $600.” He said there’d been a man lookin’ at it t’other day, a rich guy, liked to throw his weight around, and—well I could see he didn’t want that guy to get it. I said we’d come back when the snow had melted off them some more.

Last week we drove up to Brookfield again. We were able to tromp right around the trailers. Mark bent down to peer under the better one and suddenly righted himself, saying, “I’m done.” He was excited—he saw hydraulics. It was a dump-trailer. You know, the little boy’s dream. Bbbbb---dump! And out falls the cargo. We seek out Leonard, who emerges from a horrific barn. Mark tried to talk him down from $600 and Leonard said, “That was Mom’s husband’s. Was the trash man, y’know, took people’s trash to the dump. It’s a good one. I offered the two trailers to t’other guy yesterday for $1500.” Then he looked at us silently. The math didn’t add up. It was drastically in our favor. I said I’d be back with a $100 deposit. We scuttled away feeling guilty. What would happen when I came back with the check? Would he have realized his error? Should I point it out?

When I returned, it was 8:00 at night. The old woman, long white hair falling, answered the door and stood silently. “I’m here for Leonard,” I said. Once again she stepped back and this time she smiled very sentiently. “Leonard’s got to get up for work now anyway, I’ll wake him up.” Leonard emerged in the clothes he’d slept in and coughed, a deep, alarming cough. He spluttered, “Yep. Gotta go to Castings [Vermont Castings wood stove factory]—night shift-- Mom here always gets to stay home.” He cast a little grin at the old woman and I was shocked. The poor man was son, not husband. But he looked so old! Anyway, he gave me a friendly smile and took my check with an air of contentment, saying he could deliver the thing in a week. I can only conclude that he never wanted that rich guy to get the trailer, and wonder what the rich guy did to lose such a good deal.

Note: It’s been a couple of weeks, and Leonard still hasn’t delivered the trailer. Are we really the elect who got the good deal? Stay tuned.

Love, Josie