MYSTERY GRAFFITI
At the edge of a vacant lot, Montpelier, VT:
(The explanation?)
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Late this morning -- after two and a half days of gray, rainy weather -- patches of blue sky began seeping through the overcast. Sunlight poured down in increasing abundance, birds sang, the clouds continued clearing out. Before I knew it, I was out the kitchen door and cavorting around the landscape. (Well, cavorting may be an exaggeration. Sauntering -- grass whip in hand, going after the wild plantain that's been attempting to take over my hilltop fiefdom this warm season -- is more like it.)
Sunlight. So simple, so nice.
Midday found me making the drive into Montpelier. Gym, errands, summertime haircut. First time I'd seen Tamsen of Acme Hair since last autumn. A genuine character, one of Montpelier's more colorful personalities. When I stepped into her shop, I was met by a space stripped bare, everything gone except a chair in front of a mirror, a cradle/charger for her electric clippers, a small bag of shears/combs. All other accoutrement had been sold -- from here on in, she'll be driving around, cutting hair in people's homes. Why? Don't know. Each of these last years has brought plans for big changes -- none of the others happened. This one's taken root.
Things learned during the ensuing cut/conversation: (a) she owns a pile of firearms (two double-barreled shotguns for self-defense, numerous collectible antique rifles), (b) she wouldn't be surprised if martial law were imposed in January (contingent on a Bush re-election), (c) this Saturday she's going to check out the bi-weekly meeting of a local militia, just for the hell of it.
First time I'd heard anything about a local militia. I tend not to pay huge amounts of attention to that kind of thing, though, so my ignorance means little apart from, er, me being ignorant. Vermont's a rural state, guns and hunting are part of the way of life here (as is a strong leaning toward independent living) -- guns are common, though not in an ostentatious way. I rarely see them on racks in pick-up tracks, a kind of display I've noticed in some other states. People tend to keep them at home, pulling them out when the various autumn hunting seasons roll through. (And when the urge for target practice takes hold, leading to the faint pops of rifle fire that can sometimes be heard echoing between the hills and mountains around here on weekends of fair weather.)
I have no guns, have never owned one (apart from an air rifle in early years and the usual toy jobbies/water pistols) -- the only holdout among my family's offspring -- though I have nothing against rifles and have thought at times about getting one to have in the house. Not a thought that's so far pushed me to make the move. I imagine when and if that thought feels right enough, I'll do it.
Or not. As with everything in this life, time will tell.
Meanwhile, since yesterday's shift in the weather, summer has returned -- high summer, in its lush, sultry fullness. A.M. fog -- normal out here -- gave way this morning to an intense July sun, the temperature leaping from below 60 to 80+. The metallic keen of cicadas started up, it looked like an intense day was cranking up until a relaxed breeze moved in, along with enough cloud cover to filter the sunlight some. Providing a kinder, gentler day.
A good day to soak up fresh air and get some work done. Or get no work done. Could go either way.
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 9:48 PM [+]
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