“Well then, what is allowed? Private property is such a bitch. Isn’t it enough to love the land? Sometimes, yes. And when it is, there’s a sense of stewardship, to be shared. Driving home yesterday, the end of a pretty grueling job, I turned right instead of left on Royalton Turnpike, because I needed gas. Not much gas to the left, except for pumps I wouldn’t trust, adjacent to the newly reopened Creek House Restaurant. Pumps with no card readers, old pumps, perfectly serviceable pumps I’m sure, no offense to the owners. If you live in Stockbridge, and you use this gas station, please forgive me my bias. I have so many memories around here, but didn’t buy gas much, just beer. Working in Brookfield today, restoring gardens somewhere between the interstate, and the forgotten valley of the 2nd branch, I was reminded by my younger associate, that claustrophobia of place is still a thing. “He can’t deal with dinner parties, you know, being stuck there, indoors,” she said. I hadn’t ever heard about this before, rather assumed it was a problem belonging to my own peculiar psychology, a panic associated with being pinned into a physical space where normal expectations would lead others to believe you could talk about yourself, and your life. “No problems with a BBQ, or campfire, just the inside stuff,” she continued. I flashed back to a dinner party where a former partner, encountered unexpectedly had appeared to me as a bona fide alien. This proved hard to ignore, despite a delicious pasta sitting in front of me, served up by my daughter-in-law. And so, don’t trap me, I said to me, and from then on avoided all such coordinated meals. And who could begrudge me, this simple approach to eating, now. A box of Annie’s Mac & cheese, easily five months old, fresher organic brussels sprouts bought at Mehuron’s in Waitsfield, Delicata squash from a care box left in my car, butter and a dash of cream. Cooked up and served into a house that has been a construction site since April, using a chair for a table. And since nourishment can be makeshift at times, these rambling close encounters with signs that invite or repel, all in one swoop, play large. As with various lovers or friends, the mystery property owner’s message carries a double entendre. “You’ve obviously taken me up on my invitation to walk down this road, but don’t you dare ignite anything or settle in and get comfortable. Remember: you’re an interloper, I may decide at any moment to consider you a trespasser, and revoke all privileges I’ve previously extended to you.” Gotcha. Pressing flowers yields a much more reliable end product. Which is why I’m filling a yogurt container with hundreds of spent petals, hoping to capture their ephemeral colors. Why not try to save what you love as it dies, or better yet, before it dies, save it?”
