“Never sure where I’ll end up, but today, it was “Mrs. Chatfield’s Farm”. The day had gone swimmingly, which meant that by 3:30 the rain was serious enough to quit work. I’m often sad to leave a job early. Thankfully, all but three peonies had been staked by that time, with so much conviction for a heavy bloom, that double twine was employed, in potential problem areas. Often, in a year when pruning & staking hit target, composting & fertilizing, do not. I was pondering this phenomenon, ruminating, in fact, as storm clouds pushed their way in to the tight Barnard valleys, the low rumble of thunder, mere background noise. A cat & mouse game, for gardeners. Earlier, at the store, I’d paid in cash for two danishes, and a coffee. “Your pansies look amazing”, I’d said, to the familiar worker, behind the register. She smiled, appreciatively. One huge planter was filled with vibrant yellows; the others, mixed colors. Extravagant enough to cover for the clumsy front door opening on what felt like rusty, coiled springs. There are things you’d rather have. It’s why flowers fill the gap. Between awful, and angelic. I think the formula is nothing short of brilliant. It’s why I’ve grown to love how hard I have to work, just to get in the store. I’d rather suffer the cranky indignities of an old door, than be disempowered, by something automatic. We get to choose. And while the choreography of wielding a ball of twine, stakes & a scissors may appear quaint to some, the actual dance of moving around plants, to fluff them, support them and enhance their beauty, is just that. An art, a useless pursuit of the soul, and yet, a refinement that has yet to be surpassed by any machine. Funny how the word “machine” even feels out of date, now. So we’re lining up the last of our analog rituals, to continue them, or let them die. What dies with those manual ways, we might ask? I’m still willing to get wet in the flesh, like any outdoor contractor, it’s a given that there are days like this. This seems to be a class of active work, that is much sought after but rarely seen as disappearing. I suggest there may be fewer, and fewer people willing to do these things, in anything approximating a personal way. Maybe we can change this. I try to, by the slowing down of time. My day washed out, but I wasn’t ready to go home. I thought about my life, and how I mustn’t let it calcify or routinize itself into something unrecognizable. I drove up, and over the gap, still not sure about how to deter my routine. I passed the Robert Frost historic site parking lot, almost ready to take action. But for some reason, I kept driving. The next best turn was a nondescript forest road, veering out toward the Moosalamoo. wilderness. Why not, I thought, and slowed. What I found, in the end, was the “Widow’s Clearing”. That stopped my heart, just the name. But then I saw the sign. Turning in, there was nothing much, but when I switched off the truck, and took a quick walk down the trail head, the light bounced out of the clearing, and I felt it. Running back to lock up, I grabbed my camera, and set out. Viewed from the mushy ground of the beaver area, it took me no time to imagine her with 4 children, and left by her husband, on the hardscrabble farm. Evidently it was worse land than most in an already bad farming terrain. She was born in Tunbridge and made a life for herself and her kids in Ripton. And died in Bethel.”
