“Entering the village at twilight, I noticed an abnormal number of cars around the green, and muffled groups of oddly garbed pedestrians,both small & large, weaving and bobbing, at road’s edge. Of course: it was Halloween night. I braked, bringing my truck’s speed to a crawl, and pulled into a spot at the convenience store, feeling lucky to find a space. I’d planned to pick up a few provisions, and held the door open, as I entered for a polite creature half my size. I couldn’t decipher his costume, but he thanked me, before proceeding directly to the cashier. I was within earshot of their tiny transaction, as I moved to the back of the store, to pick up my items, but could not hear the details. Approaching the counter, I vaguely registered the pot of candy, but went for my credit card. Harpreet, the gracious store owner, tipped the candy towards me. “No, thank you,” I said, “save it for the children”. He answered “they are so polite, they only take one”. I could see he was amused, and perhaps a bit surprised by the night’s civilized proceedings. He was, after all, the proprietor of the town’s only gas station. I’m sure not every night, was similarly decorous, or demure. This might be the hallmark of small town Vermont, on any given demonic holiday. Unable to rise to the national level of evil, despite all indicators, and/or trends. I thought about it, as I left the store, mentally comparing this close encounter with blatant lack of greed, or mischief, to Halloweens past. I thought of Cora Brooks, whose house on the main street of Chelsea VT, had often produced toothbrushes, or poetry books, when my children had gone begging. Or further back, to when I had done the same in my upstate NY neighborhood, venturing down a long dark driveway to the mysterious Roy Parks mansion, dressed as hippies or amorphously caped crusaders. That would have been in the 1960s or 70s, and as rumor has it, we got games, puzzles or toys. Why not create a night for receiving unexpected gifts, of value, or intelligence? Eventually, such efforts die, but surely we could revive them. I drove away, dreaming of my grandchildren, going door to door. It’s not a far stretch to imagine the poverty that might compel any of us, to seek handouts, from strangers. Funny, how the brain wants to make connections, to show us that what is merely a game, or a fun ritual, can become fraught with other implications. During any given day, people approach us with quiet requests, for validation, or empathy, or some kind gesture, of sweetness. I’d be king, or queen, if I could fill all their sacks, with something of use. This is why my occupation of digging, and clearing, and reshaping what is human, and humanly possible, is so poignant, and so urgent. Call me a strange creature of nature, or some freak tumbled out of the complex modern world, but this is about all it amounts to: kindness, reorganization, and re-planting, into any humble plot we can identify, as sacred soil.”
