“Here at the main intersection of town where the east/west road makes a “T” with the north/south road, one abandoned building draws little to no attention. Why I’m noticing it now for the first time, defies all logic. I guess I’ve been habitually fixated on other things. Like the architect’s house across from “Central VT Gas” with a breezeway dormer the likes of which I’ve never seen anywhere. Finally stopped to gawk and shoot the damn thing. To hell with being an obvious interloper - I just don’t care anymore. If you’re locked down in your rural apartment, jobless, bored and wondering what to do with your life, you are probably not going to really mind a stranger outside your window with a camera. And I’m not really a stranger. What would make me that? My best friends kid’s have gone to summer camp in this town, I’ve had personal correspondence with the town librarian, and I’m pretty sure I came here in the 80s on a romantic retreat with my boyfriend at the time, a kind-hearted newspaper publisher. He made history, others went on to illustrious careers, some imploded or died of their addictions. I’m old enough now to have seen quite a bit of Vermont history roll under the dam. Who cares? It’s all about what’s been digitized, what becomes our online reality. To buck that system, to keep it honest and messy, that takes an effort that often seems futile these days, right? Look for folks who still fix broken tools, who can’t afford to fix their own roof. If you’re gifted coordinates to buy a sink off Craigslist or meet a mystery man, & they don’t compute on GPS, for sure go. Old school mapping will take you further into the hidden parts of the kingdom. And if getting lost allows you to do something you hadn’t planned on, all the better. This a-hole life we’re attempting to make “okay” right now, it isn’t. I’m gonna to meet up with all of you for a beer in the hereafter and have a good laugh. I used to worry I was “fake”; now I worry I just can’t fake it. So I don’t. Traveling north in the early morning, I’ve learned how to beat the melt, driving under the shadow of a ridge line of wind turbines. Frost heaves on the hard road are something awful right now. I recognize the handmade sign to the cousin’s auto body shop, kind of confusing at first glance, but there’s the turn. On my second visit now, I seem to have it down. Fork to the right up behind the old man’s house, around the hair pin turn, then back the truck up to the trailer. Of course, the generator’s wailing away, kerosene heat’s smelling up a storm, wondering why he hasn’t succumbed to the stifling lack of oxygen in his shop. Morso, Jotul, Cawley LeMay. All in various states of disrepair and rebuild. Without giving too much away, it’s true that dudes who preserve the fix-it tradition often have day jobs. Waitering, bartending, farming. So I took the Waterford. Imprinted with the motif of a round castle with one pennant flying proudly atop it, polished with stove black, new gaskets sealing up all the cracks. What a proud unit, strapped to the dolly, jimmied over the ladder ramp tipping, unwieldy, onto my truck bed, and another set of ties. I’m all for business transactions that learn your name over time, smile, & educate your ass. These are ways up, when you welcome yourself to be included by fellow locals. It takes more courage to know your neighbor than to do a Zoom call. I’ve fallen behind this “new normal”. I can’t stomach any of it. Give me a “Bump” sign, any day. Something I can aspire to slow down for, instead of speeding up.”
