Close Up Taste of the News

An evening at Speakeasy Magick awaited, and Carey, Don, Dave and I had taken the train to Grand Central. As we headed to the Ace Hotel, we felt lucky to get a taxi so easily and with such an affable driver. 

Muhammed was chatty and personable. We asked the usual questions: how long had he lived in New York? Where was he from? Where would he live if he could live anywhere? He’d been in the city for 10 years, hailed from Bangladesh, and would prefer to live in California, but was daunted by the cost. He was sympathetic and made some helpful suggestions when he learned Don had forgotten his phone – and the speakeasy tickets it held – in his truck. 

New York’s congestion – the cars, humans, garbage, and buildings – blows me away, alien territory compared to our home in the woods, but I was tucked in the back seat with Dave and Carey, engaged in conversation and paying little attention to the crowds and bustle surrounding the taxi.

Until a police officer waved us over. 

Muhammed pulled to the curb, and we assumed a large vehicle needed room to pass. But the cop gestured for Muhammed to roll down his window.

“You cut off a pedestrian back there,” said the cop, his tone curt. “Your license, please.”  

“What? No, I didn’t,” Muhammed said as he dug in his pocket for his wallet. 

“Yes. You did. At the corner.”

“No. I didn’t! I didn’t do anything wrong!” his voice rose, his amazement and concern evident. My own stomach tightened as I tried to make myself smaller, shrinking into my seat and sensed a collective clench as we, the formerly cheerful passengers, waited. “Did you all see anything like that?” he asked, his eyes darting from Don beside him to us in the back seat.

“No.” A chorus of nos. We’d seen nothing like that, and our protests mounted as the cop countered them then walked to the back of the cab and started scribbling in his notebook. He was joined by a female officer who adjusted her cap as they stood, a blue wall, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the back window, hemming us in. 

In the taxi, Muhammed was increasingly frantic. Understandably frantic. This is not the America of a few years back. This is the America of ICE, of deportation not for criminal actions, but to meet quotas. The officer was a policeman, not a member of ICE, but due process and a Constitution to count on have been tossed, and this cop could cause Muhammed serious grief. 

“I have to video you. I might need your testimony for the judge,” Muhammed said. He turned in his seat, held up his phone, and panned the four of us as we repeated our statements about his innocence.

The cop returned to Muhammed’s window, flipped a page of his pad, and said, “So. I see that you’ve been in 28 accidents and incurred numerous infractions.”

“WHAT?” Muhammed’s shock was explosive. “That’s not true! 28 accidents? What are you talking about? I’m taking YOU to court!”

“And I’m giving you a ticket,” said the cop, handing Muhammed a yellow sheet from his pad. 

“You… You’re a….” Muhammed growled as we, his allies and passengers, murmured, “Shh. Shh. Don’t provoke him.”

“I’m what?” said the cop. “What? You were about to say something?”

Again, we, the car chorus, entreated, “Shhh. Say nothing. It won’t help.” 

Muhammed glanced at the yellow carbon copy in his hand and did a double-take. “This is illegible! I can’t even read this!”

“Can I see it?” I asked, and he handed the sheet back to me.

It was blank. Blank but for the barest of marks. No visible words. No record for Muhammed of the accusations against him. 

What must he have felt? I felt sick. Sick for him. Sick for the immigrants. Sick for people of color who face bullies - official bullies - bullies encouraged and empowered by Stephen Miller, by Trump, and by all those who remain silent.  

“Driving while brown…” Dave murmured.  “Odd that he hasn’t asked for your registration. That’s usually standard along with the license.”  

Eventually the cop released us, allowed this supposedly reckless driver with his alleged history of accidents and infractions to continue on with his hapless passengers. 

Talk in the taxi was rushed and furious, a cascade of encouragement, as we pulled away, each of us adding opinions and pointers. 

“Muhammed. If he’d really found that you had a record like that, he would’ve told us to leave the car. If you had a record like that, the taxi company wouldn’t have given you a job. There's a camera on the front of your cab and on almost every street corner. You’ll be able to sort this out. Write everything down while it’s fresh.”

“I just hope I get a nice judge who will listen to me.”

“The cop’s meeting a quota,” said Dave. “He won’t bother to show up in court, and they’ll throw out the case.” 

“Hopefully. But at the very least, I miss a day of work and a paycheck.”  

A taste. While in a taxi on our way to a fun night in the city, we were given a taste of what we've read in the news. And we, the privileged white people, could continue on to our hotel, this unfortunate incident behind us. 

But what will happen to Muhammed?

 

  

 

 

 

  

Back to the Bookstore

Paul was enacting a battle between toy monsters on the floor in the corner while Lexi and I perused craft kits. Dave was trying to decide which of the “Bad Guys” books Paul might like best, and a customer in the adjacent room above the spiral staircase had taken a seat at the grand piano and was delighting all with a rousing ragtime melody.  Yes, we would get to the cathedral and the old town with its cobblestone streets, but for two afternoons, being with the kids at the Indigo Bookstore was exactly where we wanted to be. 

Dave and I were in Montreal, there for a stolen visit with grandkids Paul (9), Lexi (7), and our son Tucker… whenever - and if - his work released him. He had called a few months before to tell us he would be in Montreal for a conference, and if we were willing to meet up, Lisa would bring the kids. Hurray! Now that they live in Zurich, the possibility of a spontaneous visit was a blessing. We could extend our time away after Vermont, and drive to Canada from Dorset.

Given our decades of perspective on the dips and dances the Universe might take in choreographing our journey, we hoped for the best. During the Covid shutdown, we missed pivotal months with Paul and Lexi when they were tiny and living in Boston. In 2022, Dave’s Covid onset cut short our stay at the Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge, my surprise 70^thbirthday present to him.  And last spring, my double pneumonia kept us from the 250^th anniversary reenactment of the battle of Lexington and Concord, an excursion two years in the planning. So, we were in fingers-crossed mode as the trip to Canada approached. What might disrupt this unexpected joy?

Lisa taking a tumble and breaking her foot in three places, is what. Noooo! She was in pain and down for the count, her foot propped on pillows per doctor’s orders. International flights were out. Would Tucker brave the 8-hour flight with two kids?

Yes! They made the trip without incident, and we met with shrieks of welcome and too-tight hugs in the lobby of the Renaissance Hotel. 

Prior to our arrival, however, I wasn’t sure we’d get as far as customs given our past record and Trump’s goodwill musings about annexing Canada. So, I’d done only cursory research on must-see sites in Montreal. I knew there was a cathedral, a botanical garden, and an old section with cobblestone streets somewhere, but the view from our 6^th floor room of the Renaissance was a canyon of concrete and glass as far as we could see, with little change in color, texture, or materials. The Montreal our friends raved about was out there, but time with the kids was our priority. It was chilly, the kids could not have cared less, and we were content to stay close. Hence our bookstore sojourn.  

That first day, after a breakfast of Renaissance Pancakes Classique - thick corn cakes with whipped cream, syrup, and strawberries – we walked the two blocks to the mall and arcade. 

The kids would’ve been thrilled to spend the day playing skee ball, whack-a-mole, and you’ll-never-ever-grab-a stuffed-animal-no-matter-how-many tokens-you-feed-the-giant-claw game. But after a pizza lunch in the food court, we moved on to Indigo. 

October it was, but the store was in the process of consolidating Halloween items on tables tucked to the side and setting up displays of Christmas mugs and cozy blankets tied with red ribbons. It felt good to be in this welcoming place, browsing through books with our grandkids, picking up a few Christmas gifts, and sneaking them down to checkout without the kids noticing. We bought a Bad Guys book for Paul and a sketchbook and markers for Lexi. Her 7^thbirthday was three days away, which added weight to her every request or yearning look. That night, Tucker had a work dinner, so we returned to the mall’s food court for more pizza. 

The next day, the kids were eager for a reprise of Day One. Books and skee ball but a block or two away! The cold weather had continued, and Dave and I were happy to accommodate their wishes. After all, we were there to be with them - and Tucker, when we could catch a glimpse.

During breakfast, I received a text from our daughter Casey asking how we liked Montreal. A succession of exclamation points and question marks indicated her expectation of an interesting report. When I texted back about the arcade and Indigo, she responded, “OMG MOM!” (Note: all-caps.) “DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME THERE! MONTREAL IS SUPPOSED TO BE REALLY COOL! IF IT IS COLD, OR TOO FAR TO WALK TO THE OLD TOWN, GET AN UBER OR SOMETHING!” 

Hm. She was right. Duly chastened, I checked my short list of attractions, and we decided on the Jardin Botanique de Montreal. Dave called an Uber, and off we went… the kids a little miffed that we weren’t going to the arcade. 

The Jardin was further than I’d thought, and the drive was through rundown neighborhoods and homeless encampments. Still, we were intrigued when we passed a swooping, white monolith of a building that turned out to be the 1976 Olympics stadium. 

And the Jardin Botanique was a discovery. A special exhibit for Halloween led us down walkways that snaked past carnivorous plants, eerie trees, and gourds transformed into spooky creatures with bulging eyes and sinuous tongues. 

Thus inspired, the kids were invited by docents to a classroom where they could create their own monsters using play dough, pine needles, pumpkin seeds, and dried grasses. They loved it, and for close to an hour dug into their craft, fingers arched, lower lips tucked between teeth, eyes bright. Lexi produced a multi-tentacled purple monster while Paul labored on his orange Godzilla look-alike. 

Strange beings were the theme of the day, and a “Nature Spirit” garbed in flowing green robes, twigs, and twisted vines greeted us and gestured toward his papier maché cave. Lexi and I accepted his offer and snuggled on pillows with a few books from a nearby shelf. 

My French is limited, but I was able to translate enough to convey the plots. And, much as I purchase wines by the artistry of the label, my strategy in selecting children’s books is essentially the same: the illustrations are the lure. We were enchanted by “La  Sorciere Trop Petite” (The Littlest Witch) by Brandi Dougherty, illustrated by Jamie Pogue, and “Je ne fais pas si peur” (I’m not so scary) about a lonely bat, written and illustrated by Raahat Kaduji. Lexi thought they’d make great gifts for her cousin, Eleanor, and we hoped to find them later at the Indigo.

*

But, we were in Montreal, for heaven’s sake, and as Casey had insisted, we needed to venture further. So, the next day, we took an Uber to the Grand Quay, a wide pier with a long history and plenty of room for the kids to run. They scampered the length of the pier, up and down stairs, and raced a grassy stretch bordering the harbor. Came a point, though, when Paul was pooped and Lexi pouting, so it was time to move on. Surely more sight-seeing would be just the thing?

Surprisingly, it was. The soaring, neo-Gothic Notre Dame Basilica of Montreal was so awe-inspiring that Paul, international traveler that he is, pronounced it “smaller, but way cooler” than Notre Dame in Paris. 

While the kids enjoyed lighting candles and shimmying up smooth stone pillars, their fascination with the cathedral lasted only so long. Ultimately, Paul drooped, slumped in a pew, his head cradled in his arm. Plus, Tucker’s warning that the kids would be hungry every two hours proved accurate, and a round of sweet crepes was in order. After 15 minutes of false starts, frustration, and weary circling, we returned to a café we’d discovered the day before … which, as it turned out, was right next to the cathedral. If only we’d turned right instead of left! 

For Lexi, every day leading up to her birthday held anticipation, and crepes with Nutella, strawberries and whipped cream were a worthy celebration…as was the Indigo and its offerings. 

So, we returned to the bookstore the next day and successfully sought the stories we’d loved of the too-small witch and timid bat, as well as stuffed baby foxes for Eleanor and the birthday girl. During quiet hours back at the room, Lexi worked in her sketchbook, depicting images that pleased her with captions written in a secret code. 

The cathedral and quay didn’t make her book, nor did the arcade for that matter. She drew pictures of Eleanor, her baby fox, and the monsters she and Paul had created. For the kids, as for us, Montreal hadn’t been the draw; it was always about being together. And that night, for Lexi’s birthday, we got our wish: Tucker was finally free to join us.

  

  

What Would His Father Think?

Dave was enjoying his wine in front of a cozy fire when I returned to our table in the Tap Room of The Dorset Inn.

“Check this out,” I said, handing him a card I’d selected from the display in the hall outside the ladies room.  

He glanced at the photograph of a sprawling stucco mansion and flipped the card over. “Hildene,” he read, “the former home of Robert Lincoln, Mary and Abraham’s son,” the only Lincoln child to survive into adulthood. 

History has portrayed Mary as desirous of luxury and fine clothes, but her husband as retaining the air of his humble beginnings. I’d never envisioned a mansion such as Hildene in connection with the Lincolns, but Mary would have loved it, and I wanted to see it.  We decided to visit the next day, on Tuesday.

Since we are Sylvestros, it was not surprising to find a gate barring our entrance and Hildene closed. A Google inquiry in advance of our visit would have been wise, but my belated search reassured us; we could try again on Wednesday. Instead, we spent the afternoon strolling among The Departed in Dellwood, an expansive cemetery of rolling hills, ponds, 19^th century gravestones, and trees spooky -bare or Autumn-glorious. 

*

Well. Young Robert did well for himself. As we stood out front in the shadow of the mansion listening to a docent’s introduction, that was clear. Having heard in the past that Robert had his mother committed because of her erratic behavior, however, my sense of him was tarnished. Mary had endured the death of three young sons, her husband’s assassination, debilitating migraines, and her share of political smear campaigns.  After all that, my behavior would have been erratic too. So, after the docent filled us in on Robert’s impressive career, his rise from lawyer to Secretary of War, to ambassador, to President of the Pullman Train Company, I waited beneath the entrance portico  to ask my question until the clutch of eager visitors had headed inside.

“So. Was Robert a good guy?” 

The docent was tall and sturdy with the pale skin and ginger hair of the Irish. He paused, choosing his words seemingly with care, then said, “Yes. Yes. I think he was. Because I work here, immersed in his life and legacy, I have certain feelings about him. Mary was hard. She was unstable. You might not know this, and I think you’d say it was a good thing; she had the right to contest the case against her. That’s sort of surprising given the times when women had few rights.”

I agreed it was a good thing, and I have often wondered, especially when I was in the throes of menopause myself – irritable, depressed, weepy, and yes, erratic as hell - how many women similarly afflicted were committed to institutions by frustrated men. Many things raise my feminist hackles these days, and I was feeling protective of Mary Lincoln.

The docent went on. “You’ll be glad to know, she won her case and was released.” 

There you go. Predictably enough, the whole, sad mess upended her relationship with her son. Still, I was eager to visit his home.  

And grand as it is, Hildene does feel like a home. Unlike Mount Vernon and Monticello where reclaiming the dispersed or sold personal items of the Washingtons and Jeffersons is an ongoing project, when the 16^th president’s last surviving descendant, Peggy Lincoln Beckwith, died, everything in the house was left in place. In 1978, the “Friends of Hildene, Inc.” took over preservation and maintenance of the house and 412 acres of grounds.

The foyer of Hildene is airy and welcoming, dominated by a pipe organ that periodically activates, playing a sweeping waltz that echoes throughout the home. In life, Robert’s wife, also named Mary, was the organist, and whenever that music wrapped around me, I felt she was with us.

There is an aura at Hildene that the family might simply be out for a stroll before lunch. A blanket is thrown casually over the loveseat in the parlor, a book of sheet music left open on the hassock. Wood is piled ready in the fireplace. Pictures of Abraham and Mary – Dad and Mom - are displayed on an end table just as they are in many homes.

I knew Robert was not out playing golf because his spikes and clubs are still in the corner of his closet. In her studio, granddaughter Peggy’s paints lie waiting near her easel. In a child’s room, several dolls sit against the pillow ready to be snuggled at bedtime. And the library/office? I would be happy to spend hours there with some of those books.  

Upstairs, several rooms are dedicated to Abraham Lincoln. When I was a sixth grader in Pennsylvania, my history teacher downplayed the role of slavery and emphasized that the Southern battle for states’ rights led to the Civil War. I have learned otherwise in the years since, and in his second inaugural address, stenciled along the top of the walls, Lincoln makes clear slavery’s role as the cause of the war, his grief in its continuation, and his commitment to the Union of the states. "Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, ‘The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’”Nearby, a bust of Lincoln gazes askance at Jefferson and the hypocrisy of that slaveowner's actions despite his declaration that "all men are created equal."                                             

                                        

Around the corner, I stopped. Stopped before a black stove pipe hat displayed beneath a large oval mirror. Believe me, my hand went to my heart to see it. A woman supported by crutches stood beside me, her wispy gray ponytail peeking from beneath her baseball cap. A docent approached us and said, “That mirror hung in the White House and might have reflected Lincoln’s last glimpse of his image as he prepared to head to Ford’s Theater.” 

Deep breath. Prickles in my nose. 

“I feel teary,” said the woman next to me. “So much of this makes me teary… especially given what’s happening in the country. To read these words… to think of the blood spilled for America’s ideals… and now…”

“I know. I feel the same way,” I said. “Are you going to the No Kings protest on the 18th?”

“Oh yeah. Crutches or not, I’ll be there.” 

As were we. A week after we left Hildene, Dave and I drove to Troy, New York and joined thousands in loud, but peaceful, protest. Speakers and individuals spelled each other in leading chants as we marched over a bridge spanning the Hudson River. 

For a time – until his voice grew hoarse - a boy of ten or so with long black hair and swarthy skin led people within earshot in roaring, “Tell me what democracy looks like!”

“THIS is what democracy looks like!”  

I have to think President Lincoln would have approved. 

 

 

 

Who Knew?

Creaky of knees after the four-hour drive to Vermont, I eased my legs out of the car and stepped onto the marble sidewalk. Wait… What? Marble? Yes. Dorset offered surprises literally from the moment we set foot. 

When traveling, Dave and I seek accommodations with a historic feel, with a sense of place. Established in 1796, The Dorset Inn was exactly what we hoped for. The entrance and mantels were festooned with pumpkins, gourds, and cornstalks - the oranges, russets, and reds of October - and a cozy blaze in the living room fireplace welcomed us. We checked in, located our room, unpacked our bags, and set out to explore the town.

The sun was still warm, and the scents of earth and smoke enveloped us. We shuffled along through leaves crisped and colorful and marveled at the marble beneath our feet. Each slab was different, some smooth and white, others veined with swirls of blue-gray and green. How was it that Michelangelo’s favored medium was so common here as to be used for this mundane but friendly purpose of connecting neighbors? 

Well. On our way to the inn, we had passed signs for the “Historic Marble Trail” and planned to hike there. Several days after our arrival, we sought information at the Dorset Historical Society. It turned out that Dorset had been a major marble source providing material for the Jefferson Memorial, the U.S. Supreme Court building, and the New York Public Library among others. Who knew? The docent gave us a map and directions to the trail and mentioned that we might also enjoy a hike – “not too challenging” – through the woods and up the mountain to the sites of several defunct quarries. One, the Gettysburg Quarry, was so named having provided the marble for many of the headstones for those who fell in that Civil War battle.

It was a lovely day, open for whatever called to us, and warm enough for jeans and a light sweatshirt. We drove to what we hoped was the small parking area the docent had indicated and set off.

Recently, our granddaughter Eleanor has begun collecting stones, so we kept an eye out for pieces of quartz, shards of mica, and chunks of marble as we walked, enjoying the scatter of bright leaves and the sense of adventure. As the trail angled ever upward, and our handfuls of Eleanor-might-like-these rocks grew heavier, we wondered if we were on the right trail and just how far up our destination might be. I doffed my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist and wondered, as I often do on hikes, why I’d not thought to bring water. 

The incline increased. That docent was young; her sense of “not so challenging” clearly differed from ours. More than once we said, “We’ll go up to that tree, and if we don’t spot the quarry, we’ll head back.” And yet, we pressed on.

I was ahead of Dave and had just indicated the most recent target for our turn-back moment when the ground leveled out… and a white-gray monolith rose before me.  Oh wow. Dangling on a rope from its summit, a young man named Joe sought toeholds as his friend up top encouraged him. 

That will never be my sport. 

A pool of dark water encircled the base of the cliff, ripples from every tiny stone dislodged by young Joe’s searching toe reflected in shimmers on the marble face. Thick, metal cords, rusty and twisted, remnants of former industry, twined about massive cast-off slabs. Where now was mostly silence, there once rang the shouts of men and the clang of chisels against stone. 

We had come to Dorset seeking fall foliage, fun evenings in an 18^th century tavern, and open days. The quarry was more than we could have imagined, and yet… there was still more.   

Bar Chatter

Two strangers walked into a Newport bar. They scanned the room. Any empty seats? It was a September evening, still warm with a cheerful, summer vibe. Overall, the crowd was young, the women dressed in a mix of stylish stove-pipe jeans and crop tops or sundresses short enough for a flash of undies. The guys were in uniform, well, so universal were their outfits it seemed like a uniform – Oxford shirts, jeans, and All Birds.  

An attractive blond woman with a cascade of faux pearls dangling from her ears waved the strangers over and gestured to two free seats overlooking the harbor. 

The sun was low, glinting on pewter water visible between the boats docked at parallel wharves. The lightest of breezes rocked the boats and caressed bare cheeks, shoulders, and midriffs. 

The strangers settled in and were greeted by an older couple tucked close to the wall – a quieter spot perfect for people-watching. “We’re the oldest ones in the place,” said the man who introduced himself as Kostas. His face was lined, yes, but he was tan, strong, and handsome. His wife, April, was martini-happy, and giggled when Kostas mentioned ages.  

“I bet we have you beat,” said the male stranger.

“I don’t think so! We’re 80!” announced Kostas practically crowing with pride; he knew how good he looked. April put her hand to her mouth and giggled again.   

“No way!” said the strangers… and they were being honest. April, perhaps, had had a bit of “work” done, but they both looked amazing. 

Drinks were ordered and served  - Dark and Stormies with muddled mint - as conversations covered home locations, children, and travel. No politics. One never knows.

As the sky darkened, the bar party ebbed and flowed like the waters in the harbor beyond. When Gus and April stood to leave, Marty and Jim, thrilled at the openings in this crowded restaurant, eased into their stools.

Jim’s dark brows arched over sparkling eyes that spoke of a kind soul. It was not surprising to learn he worked on behalf of others researching rare cancers. Marty, his wife, hale and athletic, ran a foundation, and was, like me, a cancer survivor. With that revelation, the uncomfortable skin of being strangers was shed, and the four of us raised glasses in a toast: “To good health!”

I asked Jim if continued funding was a concern and, his expression rueful, he nodded. Marty and I locked eyes. We knew the role medical research had played in our being together that night at the bar.    

It was time for dinner, so we perused the menus, but a restaurant regular mentioned an unlisted dish: lobster ravioli with morel mushrooms in a champagne sauce… and four orders were submitted to the kitchen.  

Meanwhile, between sips of sauvignon blanc, talk turned to Marty and Jim’s weekend plans: a wedding and their son’s beach volleyball match. We contributed news of our granddaughter’s loose tooth, mastery of her two-wheeler, and our son’s family life in Switzerland. Phones were pulled from pockets and photographs shared amid hoots of laughter and coos of admiration. 

Once our dishes arrived, there was appreciative silence as delectable bites of tender ravioli, creamy sauce, and generous chunks of lobster were sampled. 

After dinner, it was time to part – this group was not one to stay late over drinks. We hugged our good-byes, grateful for this chance connection, those empty seats at the bar, and the glimpse into the fullness of every stranger’s life.  

 

 

 

    

Still Here

It is late August, and in the evenings, I smile to hear the summer serenade of cicadas, crickets, and a lonely owl. In 2025, few are given the blessing of Nature’s nighttime songs; they have been beeped, revved, yelled, and motored into silence… but blessedly, not so in Easton. 

In the ‘70’s, a time of honor-the Earth and do-it-yourself living, author and artist Eric Sloane was already wistful about what had been lost, what he felt made America great. In I Remember America, Sloane reminisces about the back roads, barns, swamps, fields, and farms where he had worked and painted since the ‘20’s. He tells of a developer gesturing toward a stretch of asphalt parking lot and remarking with satisfaction, “To think that was once just a marsh!” Sloane well remembered the place, alive with birds, fish, and “the guttural guitar responses of green frogs.” When he said he liked it better the way it was, the developer scoffed, “You… are old-fashioned.” (pg. 31)

I am too. I love my 18^th century house with its lingering scent of wood smoke, wide plank floors, massive beams, and soot-blackened fireplaces. There is a cozy warmth to old wood touched by generations of hands and by the aura of the lives of those generations. Once, behind a wall taken down to do some repair work on our fireplace, we discovered the imprint of fabric in the horsehair plaster. I could imagine a weary worker taking a break and leaning back, leaving the mark of his shirt there for over two centuries.  

Sloane is particularly nostalgic about old barns and noted that many portrayed in his paintings had been, by 1971, demolished. He depicts the beauty of decay in missing panels, gaping windows, and iron hinges black against red barn doors now faded and scratched.

... Like the barn across from our house. Moss and lichens creep across the roof, and the shingles, exhausted after centuries of resisting rain and snow, are caving in. The planks of the doors are gap-toothed and rotted where they meet the ground, and no doubt many creatures seek shelter there at night.

In the morning, inspired by Sloane’s paintings, and the shadows, angles, and crevices that attracted him, I grab my phone and wander about the barn knowing the neighbors won’t mind. I am newly fascinated by the muscular roots that snake through the soil to the stonework of the attached garage. I love the shaft of sunlight on the dirt floor glimpsed through a crack where wood meets stone. I kneel on the earth to click a white aster blooming against the faded red stain of the barn door.  

And I am grateful that this barn still stands, as does our ancient house when so many like it have been torn down by those who value the new over the old. I am grateful for the swamp that abuts our property, where the frogs bellow in the spring, and the raccoons go hunting. And I am grateful that we live in Easton.

Eric Sloane was heartsick over the triumph of development, cars, and cash over landscapes he’d held dear. He mourned the passing of America’s agrarian past, the demolition of its remnants, and the destruction of natural ecosystems.   

Yet… we have them still in Easton. 

Thousands of acres of forest, swamps, meadows, and fields preserved. Historic homes. Farms and barns passed down through generations of Easton families.

For all of this, I thank our Commissions and Boards, Citizens for Easton, and the Aspetuck Land Trust for upholding our zoning and their vigilant stewardship. And many thanks to our farmers, for the work they do, the food and Christmas trees they provide, and the agricultural heritage they have upheld. 

Eric Sloane would be proud.  

 

 

Sloane, Eric, I Remember America, Ballantine Books, New York, 1975             

  

A Quiet Morning - or not - in Rhode Island

Garlic mustard is an invasive plant, and it is best to root it out. In its defense, in early spring it puts forth a cluster of delicate blossoms, and its edible leaves can be crushed into pesto. 

Similarly, the multi-flora rose is a murderous siren as the vine entwines trees and shrubs in a choking embrace. But, it emits a perfume so heavenly that I still my pen, sit back, close my eyes, and breathe deep. 

For a few moments, I remain so, enjoying quiet interrupted only by the chatter of a chipping sparrow and the distant chirp of a robin. That peace is short-lived however, for we humans are an invasive species ourselves, and once the growing season begins, we are loud.

So loud. On this day in late June, the landscapers are out in force, heavily armed to control and contain humans' preferred non-native: grass.

Across the way, a truck towing a trailer bearing a commercial mower parks on a swath of grass that borders the road. It is not the lawn to be mowed as it turns out, but that of a neighbor. That neighbor is not pleased to see the truck and trailer on her grass. She storms from the house shrieking her fury at a burly worker in a neon-yellow tee-shirt. “Get your truck off my lawn!” She howls. I reflect that the town owns land 25’ from the center of the road, but do not wade into the discussion across the street with that tidbit.  

The burly man had already started his mower and does not move his truck. Meanwhile, his associate has fired up a gas-powered leaf blower which roars its disdain of the petals and leaves that have had the temerity to besmirch the green of the grass. Neither man turns off the machines to better hear or address the neighbor’s concerns. Instead, the burly man bellows that he’d move the truck once he finished mowing the roadside strip, thank you very much. 

The woman, hoarse, by now, I have to think, marches to her house and re-emerges with her phone. She stomps to the front of the truck and takes a picture then turns and shoots the burly man a major stink eye. A stink eye that says, “Move the truck, or I’ll call the police.” In truth, I’m surprised she hasn’t done so given the ferocity of her ire. 

Once the strip of lawn is the required ½ inch shorter, the burly guy moves the truck to the strip he has just mowed. He then takes his own picture of his prior parking spot and yells to the leaf blower, “That’s for my protection.” Apparently, he, too, thinks the police might pull up.   

At that point, there is a final exchange between the homeowner and burly guy about which of them had been more rude. 

“You were rude to me!” 

“Well, you were rude FIRST!”

“No! You were!”

Sigh. Grown-ups.  

The lightest of breezes cools my face and sets the pink petunias Dave planted yesterday to bobbing. During a pause in the action across the street, I hear a cardinal call from the wetlands. An airplane whines overhead, and a truck rumbles past drowning out the bird’s call. Nature’s gentle songs and creatures cannot compete with humanity’s invasion.