“We stare at the high rise outhouse, rain dripping off its metal roofing, standing in a quiet forest glade connected by fairy paths. I can see how he’s employed recycled materials from my demolished chicken coop. This is exactly what neighbors should do for each other. The tour continues to the old school bus bought in Ogdensburg NY, a tale of rotors and the mechanics needed to get the ol’ girl back on the road. Welding has became an essential part of their refurbishment vocabulary. Bolt holes and wheel wells, and unforeseen gaps, that won’t do a Vermont winter. But this is how it’s still built, from dream, to footpath, to clearing, to dwelling. A formula virulently tested in the north country, by the few who work low on cash, but high on ingenuity and spirit. I’ve belonged to all the clans. Been married rich, then dumped for lost to fend for myself. Raised kids on my own, or with help, before the illusion of constancy faded. I guess I don’t get along with the people I’m attracted to. It’s a flawed, systemic wiring issue, not easily reworked on weekends. Better to focus on projects. I’m floored by the artistry of Brian’s hand hewn hemlock and pine, made to fit the damp, dense, fern field over a plank bridge that charms my heart. I have no hat, just tears of rain, streaming as the downpour feeds every branch of mountain water converging here. Here, where a few campers are parked, and a school bus melds into the sound of rushing rapids, reminding me of Alaska and the death of Christopher McCandless. We walk deeper into the brush, to see the site of future gardens, bordered by forgotten apple trees. More slimy plank crossings, to make east, or west, of the dominant waters. Further out, bad logging, but not so bad that it couldn’t be reversed by a smart arborist couple. It’ll take some time to amass the cost for a bridge to take the school bus over land, over water, and up into the lost canyon. But I believe they’ll do it. Like I’m doing things my family told me to stop doing, because it was making my life too hard. Oh well. The perspective on what is hard, is so subjective. The very hardest times in my life were witnessed by my children, before they could qualify as witnesses, or were cognizant of our struggles. And that’s as it should be. The superficial chaos they see me wallowing in today, is a piece of cake. I’ve somehow made it my norm, without meaning to. My kids being more cautious, more stable, more well adjusted, they want to confer their wisdom on me and temper my driven nature. Ha. Sorry. I’m beyond that, for better, or for worse. And it’s made you what you are.”
