|
Friday, November 22, 2002 Two days ago: The dawn brought a clear sky and brilliant sunshine (for a change) so that despite early-hours temperatures in the 'teens, the mercury shot well up into the 50s by midday. This with something like ten inches of snow on the ground, mind you. A big day for melting snow, water dripping from the eves, water streaming through the gutters and downspouts. Warm enough that the air was full with insects brought to sudden life. Warm enough that one could walk outside without a coat or vest or sweater or sweatshirt (though waterproof boots remained a must). By mid-afternoon, the snow on the ground had shrunk to less than half its morning depth, becoming soft and dense (perfect snowball material). With the accelerated melting and evaporation, vapor began rising from the earth, producing a thick, white mist that hung above the fields, still and quiet. Ghostly. As the sun dipped behind the trees and daylight waned, the mist grew thicker, becoming fog that filled the air and lasted throughout the night. Rain started up yesterday morning, meaning hours of fog and rain. The fog eventually cleared up. For a while. This morning: no rain for the most part. Some fog. Later today: rain fell. The fog thickened. Rain. Fog. Rain. Fog. On the way back from Montpelier late yesterday a.m., I stopped in to say hello to Mo and Kay, my downhill neighbors. We're sitting around their small kitchen table marveling at the goofy weather, discussing this and that. Just after noon, there's a knock on the door and three people enter. Three salt-of-the-earth Vermonters, two men (mid-40s, late 20s), one woman (30-something). Local folk, probably lived here their whole lives, like Mo. Wearing bulky clothing, wool hats, big, clunky waterproof boots. Hands thick, reddish, the nails dirty. They had store-bought sandwiches and a bag or two of fried pork skins. They apparently weren't expecting to find a stranger there, their initial vibe toward me cautious and distant, almost suspicious. Mo introduced us all, they realized I was the person who lived up the hill across from the woods. Things relaxed a bit. I got up and pulled on my coat, the three new arrivals pulled up chairs around the table and sat down, stripping the plastic wrap from their sandwiches and digging in. The woman had roast beef on a roll, the meat as red and raw as I've ever seen. She pulled the bag of fried pork skins open, it made its way around the table. Mo and I continued talking, mostly about the mess Goddard College has been in. The others talked between themselves. At some point, it became clear they were listening to Mo and myself. I mentioned what we were talking about, they all began contributing opinions. Goddard is in the neighboring town of Plainfield. The younger guy mentioned that a group of people had bought close to 100 acres in Plainfield and were planning on creating a community on the property, a communal mode of living, not seen here in many years. From there the conversation turned to hunting, the reason they were up here on the hill. It turns out I've seen them going by on the road on a daily basis this last week, one of them driving a massive pick-up with a snowmobile loaded in the rear. I'd waved, they'd waved back. Local courtesies. The older guy began talking about their plans for the afternoon: to go up on the hill behind Mo's place and spread out, the idea being to flush out deer, drive the game into the area between them all, then close in and bring one down. I'm not a hunter. Their way of life isn't mine. But it's theirs, as it is for many local folk. They like it, they identify with it. It's something they grow up with, part of the fabric of their lives, part of the cycle of the seasons in these parts. Worthy of respectful interest, at minimum. There was more talk, eventually I excused myself, said good-bye, headed back up the hill. I pulled up by my garage, was standing out in the snow looking off down the hill and up the valley when one of the hunters came out of Mo's place off down the hill, going to one of the parked cars. They got in and started it up, drove slowly up the hill, pulling over by the woods across the road, a couple of hundred feet away. The door opened, they got out and stood there pulling on gear, zipping up. I waved. No wave came in return. Could be they didn't see my gesture. Could be they didn't feel like responding. Could be something else. It felt, though, like the vibe I'd experienced when they first entered the kitchen, that standoffish you're-a-stranger thing, may have resurfaced. Or not. I can't say for sure. The coming days may bring more encounters. I'll be curious to see what comes of them. Meanwhile, the rain continues, as does the fog. The snow dwindles, patches of lawn slowly reappear. The forecast for tomorrow: colder temperatures/snow. Could be time to get the Christmas music cranking again, light a few candles to offset the chilly late November dark. We'll see. Later. rws 9:40 PM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment
|