“The tractor trailer would not come up my road, with the door delivery. Understandably. My son agreed to meet the driver down-river in a nearby town, Bristol, & off load the goods into his pickup. My studio doors. Sort of momentous, but not the only door story of the day. A hand-made door crafted out of cedar & pine was also ready to be installed. I skied up to the post & beam tiny house, to see what was happening. I saw Ron, through the window, whom I hadn’t seen in decades. He’d dropped by to watch the door installation, I guess, and it was great to see him after all these years. John’s plastic barrier was doing its job, in tandem with the relatively “warmer” temperatures that would allow for one door to be swapped out, for another, without too much loss of heat. Ron pushed his way through, and we were standing in the snow. Some of us older musicians who’ve been kicking around for a while, we hold certain other mythic Vermont musicians in high esteem, although we may have spun in different circles for over half a lifetime. I was heading off on my second ski of the season, on a trail adjacent to my house, where I was about to push some boundaries. But I needed to make sure John knew I would move the pile of shiplap (lumber) out of the driveway, before the impending storm. Which is why I encountered Ron, and why I was now enjoying his friendly face. “I hope you’ll come back to play, soon” I said. “Right, we’ll pull his Hammond (organ) across the yard on a sled” quipped John, his erstwhile bandmate. It’s all part of the routine we suffer, living in hill towns, or worse yet, mountain towns. You can’t take yourself too seriously, or you’ll end up abandoned in a ditch. But I’m a believer, when I see a smile, as genuine as Ron’s. It brought back all kinds of memories, of when I was young and foolish. The bright talents each of us had come in with, that had since made their way and landed where they had with their unpredictable outcomes. Fascinating, really. I love coming full circle, and then some. It really pays to not assume you know anything, because that way, you stay open to new information. I’ve made it my religion, side by side with having faith. Anyway, I left John & Ron, and went into the woods. The trail was pretty much as expected, until it wasn’t. I took the down hills by veering off trail into powder. I do not like to crash. But I was determined to find the V.A.S.T. trail (snow travelers) where it joined the Catamount Trail. This took some skiing. The photo is where I met a couple bridges, a little beyond my comfort level. It was a logical place to turn around, and head home. I looked around, to see if I could find Mary’s dug well. It was supposedly out here too. Then i took a snow shoe trail, big mistake. Thinking I could bypass some of the sketchier sections, packed down by weekend skiers. I started out enthusiastically, but took the wrong spur. Had to use saplings to pull myself out of impossible culverts, & resort to the herringbone technique, unfortunately. Ron & John were still there when I limped into the dooryard. We had some tea, some laughs and reminiscences. It’s a cautionary tale. Don’t ski the backwoods if you aren’t willing to make an ass of yourself. Period. End of story.”
