“Leaving Jeff’s, I didn’t know where I was going but I decided to continue along the dirt road bordering his property, because I’d seen a car coming out of it, which meant it was passable, probably. Good enough for me. The name of the road, referencing a root vegetable, seemed to be of old Yankee stock. Road signs count for something, although within my life time, we seem to have acquired too many. Used to be (which is an alternative to “back in the day” or “when I was a youngster”) Vermont didn’t have road signs for the dirt roads. So just ponder that, a bit. I can’t speak for New Hampshire, however. And that is where I found myself, mid-day, in the rain. I’d saved up one half of a sandwich, for my return trip, and there was cold coffee, again: good enough for me. I don’t require regular meals, because training myself off regularity has become, of necessity, a super power of mine. This began years ago while navigating someone else’s substance abuse, then segued into single parenting. Most recently, it’s been more about home renovation, while living in the home. We all do it differently, but training our minds to be flexible, even against our better judgement, just has to be done, when it has to be done. Looking up at the mist soaked hills today, from out my truck windshield while driving the paved, frost-heaved secondary highway in the valley, I felt the peacefulness of seeing the same hills on a different day. This has got to be the cheapest form of entertainment in god’s creation. It’s a conversation, I never tire of. Of all things, the landscape expresses constancy, while cloaking itself in a surprisingly novel rotation of weather conditions. I depend on it, for my sanity. Since I was running out of gas, and my credit card had been canceled due to fraudulent charges I’d just discovered, finding the perfect gas station was also on my agenda. One that wouldn’t be weird about a cash transaction. Cash, also going the way of unmarked roads. Plastic is so “easy” (italics). We all know what it’s leading us into. But gosh, I still love a good drive, and try to preserve my driving to work. I don’t want to work next door. I want to “drive” (italics) to work. Really cross the state, even state lines. I found myself explaining my position to a relative newcomer to Vermont, just yesterday. “Vermont is a kingdom”, I heard myself pontificating, “and the more you open yourself to it, the more mysterious and vast it becomes.” I guess when you revel at missing the yellow light, and feel thankful that you have to stop at the red, you are feeling interested in something local. This ritual, I repeated, many times today, only noticing it after the first few incidences, of blissing out as I was slowed to a stop. “I get to be here & think, and plot” I said to myself. “I have more time to make decisions that might change the course of my future, here, caught beneath the spell of the traffic light” I continued. I looked around. To the right, a moving train, full of cargo, clanging and banging as only slow trains can do. To my left, a natural foods coop, where I had the option of picking up a second sandwich, especially catered to my dietary needs, or refreshing my cold cup of coffee. I’d passed three thrift stores, and thought about stopping, every time. But my first mission of importance was to get a treat for my carpenters, leaving the job. I chose Gillingham’s general store, in Woodstock, running in the pouring rain to buy Orkney Malt Whisky Fudge, for a few guys. I don’t know what else to say. Unfortunately, I couldn’t also buy a good metal rake there, which I thought they had. More fru-fru gifts, check. Fewer tools. That’s how Vermont is going, but it’s also not letting go of its rebels, anytime soon.”
