“Here’s my friend taking off snow shoes, although currently she’s practicing her handstand in Florida on the beach. Vermonters are versatile. Or, some are. I still seem to be doing the same things I’ve always done, perhaps because I was graced with an emotional inflexibility that’s turned into dogged, intractable entrepreneurism. My psychological inheritance has taken a long time to throw off, and I mean wrestle, into oblivion. Which is why you might find me wading through waist deep snow on any given day, dragging furniture, or lumber, or a water trough. I’ve had help, and the best kind, which always flies in on a wing & a prayer, then abruptly, is gone. But single women of the north country who don’t have a man, unwittingly become quiet spectacles of endurance, however good their intentions were at the start. Their contortions in relation to survival, are mostly witnessed by feral cats, and night hawks, and mice. Every nuance of a storm must be noted, and factored in, for those of us dealing with inclement weather. I’ve got to have my snow shoes in good working order, but oddly, I always think of the kind hearted person who gave me my first snow shoes, even before I knew how essential they would become. The loss of him, I can’t ever explain. So here I am. I wish men would feel more comfortable asserting their masculinity. Where the crust of the trail meets my tread. I wish things could have gone differently. I’m pulling things up the hill, too heavy for me, using my power of will, because I need things to be done. The elusive peaks of the north-south range that impose so greatly during winter, have spoken. While Nikki is reacquainting herself with her own arsenal of sophisticated yoga moves, I am longing for her return. This barren end of a nothing road, that yields self-examination from its residents, it’s got to be my salvation. Its crooked waterways, way up here, hiding falls & deep non-negotiable ravines, alternately melting and glazing in layers that defy penetration, according to the fickle snow pack. I look into this mist, with a wistful heart. For those I used to consider friend, whom I would have approached open hearted. Who are now drawing their curtains to “my kind”. It’s strange, but beyond that, we must embrace its unworldly reckoning.”
