“The flowers are so prolific right now they don’t know what to do with themselves. A silent uprising of color, & attitude to rival what ever is being done to our landscape, once pristine. Not knowing who to blame, as we sit in our vehicles, stopped in our tracks by makeshift traffic lights erected along forest roads, tapping our steering wheels nervously as we look into recently ravaged ditches and culverts, gone or almost gone. A further analysis, via Google satellite, reveals the exact location of neighbors’ houses moved by mud slides or swamped. Our commutes, have been altered. Thunder rumbles, most afternoons, amidst bright blasts of sun, then more darkness, and more rain. The talk at the store, is muted. The first words between friends not seen in a week or so, is: “How’d you do?”. I don’t really know how I’ve done. Dodged a bullet, or just been spared this round, no one knows. Taking pride in Vermont’s extreme weather seems pointless now, almost blasphemy. And sad. Farms are destroyed, livelihoods upended, daily routines put on hold or worse. The meme “Vermont Strong” though true, rings hollow. It’s not enough. In some towns, life goes on. The steeple on Barnard’s most prominent church did survive removal by crane, between when I picked up my danish and coffee, and when I later returned to pick up supplies, on the way home. Trendy visitors from out of state are still in motion, driving in and out of Sinclair Lewis’s old farmstead, now a modern enclave for the very rich. I managed to avoid the flooded areas of most gardens I tend, and care for. My work shoes have not, however, dried. The tell-tale signs of muck, and rotted materials clings; I smell their aromas at night when I wake, in the safety of a dry bed. There is no need for explanation, as I contemplate the swamp rose, chokeberry & other shrubs still sitting in pots, best suited for planting in a bog. No stars shine in through my skylight. It’s foggy & humid, going on now a month or more. I’ve doubled up my woodshed openings, with sliding barn doors, to block any future tempest. I think about the best hardware, the most solid foundation to sink into saturated ground, the most resilient forms of drainage. I’ve been through other types of malfunction, enough to be wary and smart, and open to the opinions of men on diggers. My wood will not be wet, and if this is the only thing I accomplish this year, I’ll count my blessings. Many will not be so fortunate. A faucet that drips, reminds me to tighten all loose screws. A gigantic burdock I’ve marveled at, and been slightly annoyed by, now looks to me like a savvy signpost of things to come. The plants are speaking. They drink up the extra in willow fashion, becoming larger than life, and ominous. Not in a bad way, not in a threatening way, but as a statutory, cautionary presence. We can only do so much with this excess, they seem to say. Before FEMA comes in, before our live are managed beyond our control. What is help is also hindrance, is also necessary, is also a downgrade. I guess that’s how things run. As I slid my goods across the counter, the cashier I’ve silently transacted with a hundred times seems unusually ready to talk. Maybe it was a fluke we didn’t lose 107 again. Maybe it was someone else’s turn to have their highway fall into the river. Maybe it was just the missing cheese, the lack of fresh produce, the eerie mood from the normally friendly floorboards as they creaked out their welcome. Her poignant direct eye contact, and sudden interest in who I am both touches me, and scares me. Who are we now? Who are we poised to become? As the days grow into unwieldy plants of uncertainty, our brief exchanges now feel much too real to ignore.”
