“The claws of winter are still about, cruel to some, kinder to others. For a certain class, spring skiing is the best: crunchy, slushy, granular, hopeful. On the flip side, cohorts less sure in their navigation may not dare walk out into the dooryard: into mud, ice, finding dead things or inert plastic garbage underfoot ... an uncertain terrain, to be avoided. The roads outside of villages change overnight, or even mid-day. Venturing into the woods on any footwear can prove wrong-headed, despite our intelligent guesses as to what we are likely to encounter. The skeletons of last summer’s goldenrod look scary. I wish I’d done more to save myself the sight of such things, but I was busy back then. Now they emerge from under the snow pack, at the edges of stone walls, next to generators, still clamoring in their seeming deadness, aside garages & barns. It is impossible to clip all the wild things that surround our sacred spaces; choosing havoc over neatness, their carcasses will yet impose and demand our attention. Well, I am a landscaper, after all. It is my job & duty to affect a casual sense of control over the chaos of growth. One season is ending, and harbingers of what is coming bring a reliable panic, that is laced with joy. With my shovel, I chip & slice into melting glacial remnants, looking for a fire pit, I know is somewhere below. My guests from out-of-state will be arriving soon, after a day of skiing, over the mountain, at Sugarbush. Rightly so, they’ve asked about the cooking facilities. I think the outdoor propane burner will still be functional, but I make no promises. I can’t keep up with every piece of hardware, nor test my units without adding fifty hands to my arms. But I try to be gracious. I try to give my best and warn those who come here, to be prepared for malfunction. It has been something I’ve dealt with, for many, many years, and always come up eventually, with a winning solution. I’m sorry we’ve coddled ourselves into a state of expecting everything to work, without an effort. A night out at the local watering hole is often all it takes, to shift one’s mood. In the back of the bar, by the pool table, we often meet the best, and the worst, of our fellow man. The dude who plays it cool on the sidelines, then invites the best of us to a duel. Yes, there can be some creepy dynamics there, but throwing in our lot with strangers in a public setting is not a bad way to regain some perspective. In fact, the forgettable ones are always supplanted by the surprise heroes, among us. She appeared from the crowd, with a smile the size of Chicago. I knew I knew her, but it took a few prodding comments to realize, we were already friends. On Facebook, that is. Acquainting ourselves in person, was the finishing touch, on an already sympathetic relationship we’d developed, online. How was I to know that she played pool with an angel? His name, Robert, fell gently around us, as she explained a bit of their history. I was starting to get my own wings, after a depressing & sullen day I’d spent, wrestling with things I’d rather not be feeling. The whole of it, of entering a world of which I knew nothing, and yet felt soothed by, was what I consider merely the magic of an ordinary situation, turned extraordinary, not by my powers, but by the hidden powers. She went on to play a mean game, and didn’t flinch when confronted by the dude. It was just her way to remind us that some men were only in our lives to “open jars”. I understood, we both respected the awesome healing methods of men who did the opposite. Or women. I was with a gang of females, after all, who knew a few things about life, as we had all been thru a few ringers, and then some. The pool table was just our odd intersection, where the good, the bad and the ugly all took turns, without any hierarchical BS beyond rods and balls. She made sure of that, and showed us how it was done. And we showed her how we were doing it, like a talking circle, with a stick. I think winter as it goes, can be a formidable ally. Making situations for us to flail our arms at, fall into and get hurt, but also providing wonderful, charmingly adverse hummocks, to ride and glide, and upon which our wisdom gathering, faltering, depends. #vermont”
