Easton Rounds

When people ask where Dave and I live, I say in a small farming town with over 50% open space. I say we live in an 18^th century house in the woods. I say sometimes bears lumber through our yard and chickadees alight on our fingers to eat seeds. As a rule, I don’t delve into the people - the farmers, first responders, departments, and services - but they are woven into life in Easton as much as the stone walls, streams, and trees. On a recent round of errands throughout town, I reflected on all of it, and the blessing of my sense of belonging here.      

The days have turned cold, the sky artfully brushed with a veil of wispy clouds. With leaves brown and dry on the ground, the ledges and slopes previously cloaked by foliage are open to view. With dark comfortably settling in early, the days fly by. Where did November go? Already it’s time to pull down our perilous folding stairs and haul the bins of Christmas decorations out of the attic. 

The holidays with their bustle of cooking, shopping, events, and gatherings have given me permission to avoid the news as best I can. Election-shock sent me reeling, and circling the wagons around friends and family is my stay-sane-strategy for now. My to-do list is ever-evolving and checking things off is a productive alternative to doomscrolling. So, I head out: first, to the post office to mail my grandson’s birthday gifts.  

On the drive down Morehouse Road past the stubbly brown fields in front of Staples Elementary School, I hum “Come ye thankful people come, raise the song of harvest home. All is safely gathered in ‘ere the winter storms begin.” This season always flips through my memory file of childhood Sundays at church and offers up that soothing song of preparation and provisions for winter. Today, I’ll do just that, stock up and look ahead.  

When I arrive at the post office, Mary greets me from behind the counter and indulges my sadness over our son’s decision to move his family to Zurich. Our grandson Paul turns nine this month; a bizarre twist since he just turned seven, didn’t he? How can I drink in every minute of Paul and Lexi’s little kid years when they are far away, and Time keeps passing, fast and fluid? 

Mary knows the story already but listens kindly while checking the weight of Paul’s presents and assessing the best packaging and price. An acquaintance pushes open the door, and that errand turns into a lovely chat among friends. 

My list compels me to move along, and next door, Greisers’ festive lights, gift ideas, and the thought of a slice of heavenly almond pie lure me inside. 

Shopkeeper Adrienne highlights local artists, and I wander about admiring beautifully crafted wooden bowls, hand-painted ornaments, and silver jewelry.  I linger over beaded fabric stars and hand towels depicting a red fox. Turns out, I’m not the only fan of the almond pie and there’s none left. Just as well.  

Next, on to the police station. Over the years, Easton’s officers have helped open my car when my keys were locked inside, calmed and guided us when our house was robbed, joined members of the fire department in investigating the source of a burning smell, and thrilled our grandkids with a tour of the police station. Next week, I’ll swing by for their Stuff-a-Cruiser event for Toys for Tots. But today, I seek advice about a possible scam. 

Like everyone else, we get more dubious phone calls, emails, and texts than those that are legit, and while this letter looks official, we have our doubts. Tara, the dispatcher, welcomes me with a hug and takes the letter back to a detective. 

While I wait in the foyer for the detective’s assessment - he judges the letter authentic and tells me what to do - I study two photographs of members of the Easton police force, one taken in 2014 and the other, this year. So many of our officers have been here over the span of those ten years, and we have come to know some of them personally. Uncertainty is part of life, but to the degree possible, those individuals and their continuing dedication to Easton make me feel secure.  

Down the road, I stop to drop off treats at EMS and then the Fire Department. It must have been a tense stretch for them with the drought and statewide burn ban. Dave and I have lived in town for close to 35 years, and some members of those departments have been serving for as long as I can remember. Several firefighters went to school with my kids, and I love seeing them at the summer carnival, manning the Bingo tent, giving back, be it for fun or in an emergency.

Dave is making soup, and I’ll stop at Tom Sherwood’s farm to visit Claudia and pick up some crusty bread and fresh mozzarella on my way home, but first, I head to Sport Hill Farm. 

‘Tis the season in Easton, officially designated the Christmas Tree Capital of Connecticut. In the weeks ahead the town’s tree farms will buzz with the sounds of saws and voices calling, “I found the perfect tree!” Even now, cars stream by with trees lashed to their rooves. A CD of traditional Christmas carols serenades me as I drive, and I look forward to special events, holiday markets, sales, and services held by the Senior Center, library, and churches. 

During the spring and fall, I set up a booth at the Sunday markets hosted by Farmer Patti at Sport Hill Farm. I sold a few things, had a great time chatting with friends and strangers, and commissioned some extraordinary pet portraits by visiting artist, Kathy Reddy. In December, the skeletons and ghouls greeting Patti’s October customers have ceded their post to white reindeer and a festive chicken in red and green.   

As the harvest hymn intones, by now, most crops have been gathered in, and Dave needs kale, potatoes, and escarole for his soup. Michelle is helping a customer up front while Patti arranges artful holiday displays. I fill a basket with Dave’s requests and can’t resist picking up two heads of Romanesco, so exotic with their pale green florets clustered in mini spires. Hmm, packs of maple sugar candy would be a nice touch of New England in the Christmas package we send to Zurich, so I add that to my basket. 

Patti mentions that this is the 25^th anniversary of Sport Hill Farm. Whoa. Again, how can that be? Another customer joins us in marveling at time’s fleet passage, and we laugh, maybe a touch grimly, at its effects in our own aging. 

I really should get home, and I still have to stop at Sherwoods for bread, but a parking spot opens at Silverman’s Farm as I draw near, so I pull in. In July, Farmer Irv transformed the fields in front of Staples with thousands of sunflowers, a gift to every Eastonite and a tribute to Ukraine. For the holiday season, Nancy Silverman, managers Julie and Aiden, and their staff transform the farm shop with greens, poinsettias, Santas, and snowmen. On this visit, Irv happens to be out front with Julie, so I get a hug before heading in to browse. I select a felt snowman for granddaughter Eleanor’s stocking and two honey crisp apples for Dave.  

Last stop, Sherwoods, and a quick visit with Claudia. She asks about “the littles” as she calls my grandkids, and I pull out my phone to show her pictures of Eleanor dressed as Belle for Halloween. And yes, I remember to buy mozzarella and the last loaf of rosemary and olive oil ciabatta.  

Errands take longer when chats, hugs, and chance encounters pepper my route, but that’s the gift of this day and of living in this town for so many years. While I worry that Peace on Earth is, for now, unattainable, we are fortunate that in Easton, Good Will – and hugs – abound.