“Visiting an old friend, someone you haven’t seen for over ten years, can bring odd forms of illumination, solace and puzzlement. What you thought you knew, what you didn’t know, and all the things you missed, in between. Despite our age gap, some 15 plus years, Elizabeth is still a marvel. Tucked away now, in a nondescript apartment complex, seemingly forgotten for all she did to advance free thinking in her years as a public school administrator, her influence over me is apparently as vital as it ever was. She reminded me, how we became friends. “Do you remember how we met?” she queried. I did not. “I called you after reading a letter you wrote to the editor”, she continued, “about road conditions, in your town”. Totally, on my side, forgotten. “You wrote about the situation elegantly, graciously, and I wanted to meet you”, she said. On her side, she was always a student of life, and most pointedly, of art history. She had no trouble recalling that my eldest, had studied ancient architecture, in Rome, and for her thesis, had honed in on Fascist building trends, post WW2. I could remember my brief ride through a part of that foreign city, prior to her graduation, and her cursory gesture towards a few blocks, nearby a park where literary figures I knew, were buried. I was more interested in the old plantings, and the odd hummocks, and claustrophobic confines where much thought had gone into positioning graves. Which is what you do in a city. For me, it was a bit of a sad ride, on buses, through a maze of concrete structures, to find a pocket of silent composure. I would gladly go back there now, and ask more questions, and sit for a longer spell than was afforded us, at the time. No matter how much we want to understand what has fascinated our children, it is still hard to comprehend, in the moment. We inevitably let our children down, and must make up for it. Or not. Elizabeth brought me back to the excitement one can feel in later life, coaching incognito, unacknowledged, but none-the-less with fully formed enthusiasm, as we navigate the nuances of upcoming generations, often as a hidden, minor partner. The best of the grandparent class has walked a slow walk through every stage of the fledgling, giving support & guidance, heeded or ignored, unrequited in terms of payback, often scorned. And yet, her ready laugh, her smiling eyes, tell the history of a longer tale. Still cracking jokes, a delight few may get the benefit of due to fragmented family scenarios, & I find myself completely enthralled, an audience of one. This is likely my future. I won’t forget the dark days of lockdown, my disobedient behavior and rule-breaking, my aching need to open the discussion. This is certainly part of my legacy of hope. No one needs to agree with me, or argue with me, to realize that there have been things, and people, whose ideas have been excluded from rational consideration. Now, amidst the massive cloud spraying, & damage and flooding, the average citizen is reeling in trauma and guilt. We feel blind-sided, but also confused. And nothing really matters until houses, gutted, are restored to cozy dwellings, and livelihoods rebuilt. Looking back to the tempest of July 11, and its targeting of those who least could manage a catastrophe, I’m mad, but determined. Mostly, I pray for a breakdown. Left and right, top and bottom, forcing humans of all persuasions tp come back together. This is what Vermont used to be, and could be, again, if history was relevant to anyone, who gave a shit about Vermont.”
