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
No comments:
Post a Comment