“We decided to work on the 4th, taking in the holiday spirit with several goals in mind: to clean up spent peonies, what was left of them, then turn to the children’s garden, a la “The Hotel”. I was low on gas, so after the low fuel alarm went off, we pulled into the Rochester gas station. A little more crowded than usual, a few out of state cars parked oddly, blocking the pumps, but I was in the mood to enjoy the delay, and waited patiently for my turn. I don’t sweat the small stuff, in fact, obstacles seem to provide rich moments, for pause, and reflection. Anyway, we’d just been discussing “stoppages”, in relation to romantic trajectories, and how, for me, a surplus of what they refer to in Monopoly as “Do Not Pass Go”, had easily become my stock and trade. We made an additional pit stop in the next town, where the coffee was better and where the possibility for fairly decent sandwiches, was real. We found a space, in front of the cement side porch at the Barnard Store, by the bulletin board, and series of benches. It was going to be a good swimming day, and folks were already wandering around, by the lake’s meager beach. “Pepperbox!” I heard, and looking up, saw a friend, enjoying his coffee, before launching a work day, that would likely rival ours. “Where’re you heading?” he said. “Lime Pond”, I replied, and he knew what I meant. The good will that is often woven between mysterious hill towns, thanks to social media and hard labor, is something I treasure. The 13 bags of bark mulch in my truck bed, sent a message all its own. We were clearly not going to stand in line to watch a parade, although, I admit, many small towns host remarkable tiny displays on the 4th, replete with firetrucks, vintage vehicles, and tacky floats. There is a time and place, for every type of endeavor. Some of my best friends clog & dance on flatbeds, dragged slowly down main streets, to celebrate a time-honored tradition, regardless of whether or not patriotism is a thing anymore, or just a pipe dream. I would never discourage their efforts, in fact, I mourn the loss of what life will be in Vermont, when all such home-town performances, lose muster, and die. I once rode in a Model T, with a sawyer named Ed Rotax, who has since passed on, and assuredly, our erstwhile parade appearance never amounted to anything but dust. Yet driving as I do, on the back roads of Vermont, I will not soon be forgetting his rural place, nor his role in making boards for houses. We traded him once, some boards, for a trunk. I’m not really sure why, because my blurred memory has lost the story. I was, myself, completely out of my league. being young, and innocent, and new to what was being lost, or timing out. Now the equestrian center built in his old neighborhood, holds court, with the majesty of kings. But I remember how basic Ed’s home was, with its wood stove-centric interior, because that was what he had for heating, and nothing extra. It still sits there, in a grove of wild trees. Ramshackle, as we say, and abandoned. Across from a state-of-the-art horsey playground, with fine, well-appointed buildings. I’ve worked for those people, too. Not exactly “those people”, but people like them, who can sire champions, and ship them south to Long Island, for superior breeding opportunities. Long and short, it’s not much different between Pennsylvania and Vermont. I do love all my gardens, with a passion that surpasses definition, or fuss. My joy has been located, and relocated, again and again. Why shouldn’t we be striving to create beauty, if we’re able, in any and all circumstances? I will always follow work that allows me to be free. Free to apply my artistic ability, call if Feng Shui or any popular term you prefer, to that which supports a topography of engagement with the imagination, and the non-digital. I love what I do, and Ed is right there with me, albeit from an altered plane of consciousness. He lived his hard life, and I’m living mine.”
