“I took the notch road, tired of the paved road’s unpredictable ice patches, as well as my own ennui. “Dirt Perfect” should be a thing, or at least, a band name. I miss what I lost, moving closer to Burlington. What I gained, was more traffic, more speed, more neurotic, elitist group-think, & more division. Go figure. Most of the rest of the state flies under the radar, minding its own business, doing right by neighbors, governing itself. And it baffled me, when my plumber asked me this simple question: “What ski area do I see, from the top of the App gap, at 11 o’clock?” Dang, if it didn’t stump me, and I hate that, when it comes to common sense geography. I’d idled my truck, or before that, my car, hundreds of times, at the top of that gap. And shot photos, and nearly been blown over doing it, which you’d think would make me an expert about what you can see from there, in all directions, in all conditions. But, no. He went on and on. Correctly describing the jagged cliffs bordering his downhill into Buel’s Gore, yet claiming to have had a clear view, of something, I had never seen. I thought .. Mount Philo? Middlebury Snow Bowl? Camel’s Hump? Starksboro? Absolutely not. Impossible. But then again, I trust him 100% as my plumber. He does all the right things, makes a beautiful, logical network of PVC drain pipe, despite the difficulties of working on a slab. His father, Arnold, was my plumber over in Chelsea. But after Arnold died, I didn’t know he had any heirs, until one day, working way out beyond the end of the official road, a truck pulled up by the ramshackle gardens I was tending to. That was a thankless job for me, a wonderful job in terms of the history, but an awkward job, without much connection to the new owners of the property. It was there, I met my plumber extraordinaire, aforementioned. Amidst the deep blue false indigo, lady slipper and rampant wild, pink rose. He, assigned to a myriad of tasks related to water flow, I, to the colors and shapes of the flora, as they spilled over into civilized areas. Strange bedfellows, perhaps, plumbers and gardeners, but who, in the end, both wrestle with raw, elemental chaos. And who, by turn, in this case, were led to a farmhouse being resurrected, and “continued”, by VINS. You can look VINS up. I still remember my elderly friends, the former owners, an author, & an illustrator, who were forced out by age, and infirmity. Jean died there; Ronni lives on, in nearby Randolph, now in her 90s. This year’s card from Ronni, a flawless relief of a leaf, & her accompanying, poetic words, are the deepest image I need carry of them going forward. From the high pasture on Braman’s land just past Sky Acres, one hilltop to the west, I remember barely glimpsing their farmhouse roof, & maybe a white, picket fence, or perhaps I just imagined it. I was a single mother new to the area. This seemed to encompass my whole dream. Who knew if I would ever meet these famous authors, of books I’d grown up with as a child. Who, reputedly, lived off-grid, deep in the woods on an adjacent ridge line. And then also met, by accident, their plumber’s son.”
