Beautiful Pumpkins

 Bristol, Vermont

 

     It is my first Halloween since moving to Bristol, Vermont. I go about my usual Saturday morning routine. I gather my laundry together. I meditate while holding a cup of hazelnut coffee softened with milk. I enjoy slow time and there seems to be more of it since I have moved here.  Around ten o’clock, mild hunger pangs ensue, so I walk to the bakery café in the village center. I step through the door and prepare to order my traditional weekly cinnamon roll. There is a buzz among the patrons, especially the kids. The din is a few decibels higher than usual and reminds me of the noise and clatter one hears in an audience before the curtain goes down and the shhhhh falls over the crowd.

     Main Street seems to have more action than usual, too – more cars on the road and people milling about on the sidewalks. The weather is calm and still, the sky a mix of clouds and sun. The autumn season fades quickly, and late October in Vermont means the trees are nearly bare. This morning everyone seems to be out to get a piece of what may be the last good day of the year.

     I’ve felt it before, autumn in Vermont, years ago when I visited my sister before I came to live here, too. Its subtle beauty absolutely must be experienced in real time. No calendar or post card can convey the scent of apples from the fields or the jumbled reds, golds and greens of the hills. It’s best just to give yourself over to the spell. Fairs and festivals offer sheep’s wool, apple cider- making, art and craftwork. These events and activities fill our days as fall wanes. 

     There is tension or bustling that occurs before the curtain goes down, as if we prepare for hibernation. Rest follows the activity of readying ourselves for slumber, and like the squirrels who gather nuts in a flurry, Vermonters celebrate All Hallows Eve in a crazed fervor.  I remember the excitement of finding the right costume and the fun of hoarding treats doled out by neighbors as a child. But Vermont takes Halloween to a way higher level.

      During the afternoon I go back into town to the “Sip n Suds” with my weekly laundry in tow. I’ve never used a laundromat in my life. If I knew before I moved to Bristol that I would be shoving coins into a machine and carrying a basket like a laundry lady, you might as well have told me I’d be beating my clothes on a rock by the river some day, but I actually enjoy this chore. It forces me to pace myself, to slow down. I read a book, I watch the other customers, and I often have the opportunity to speak with people whom I might not meet otherwise. Passers-by notice me sitting in the big storefront and wave.  On this afternoon, my friend, Jen, stops by to keep me company while I wait. I tell her how sometimes I feel lost despite how much I love my new home. She asks me if I consider returning to New Jersey. We pause and simply look at each other because there is no way I want to go back, but it is true, I feel the pull of family left behind. It is good to have Jen as a confidant, but ultimately, all decisions are mine, and with that, she goes off to walk her dog, and I finish my laundry alone.

     As I fold the last of my clothes, I gather up my basket and walk outside. Shop owners stand out on the sidewalk, heads together. It’s as if they are synchronizing their watches, or are spies working on a secret mission. I walk back to my apartment and fix a small dinner for myself. Afterward I step out into the evening to meet my new friend, Charlie, for coffee. By now we have both been tipped off to the fact that Bristol’s Halloween is a big deal, so we set off to explore for ourselves.

      Main Street is desolate except for diehard diners enjoying an evening meal at the only two restaurants in town, but as we walk deep within the grid of streets, most of the homes are decorated in honor of the night. One porch is rigged with dressed-up dummies, which move about mysteriously. Eerie moans emanate from an old farmhouse, and there are carved pumpkins everywhere, one display more elaborate than the next. Taiko drummers do their thing on a front lawn; the exotic beat makes me crazy. It’s like a Yankee Mardi Gras, and I am enchanted by the wildness of it all.

     Throngs of children and their parents roam the streets. Few people nod hello. Maintaining secret identity seems essential. Charlie and I are not wearing costumes, nor are we escorting little ones. We feel as if we are illegal gawkers. We stop at Charlie’s friends, Rob and Aggie’s on Maple Street, where we share warm cider and good conversation.

     Charlie and I begin our walk back toward the center of town. We come to a house on the corner of Spring and Mountain where a woman sits on her porch step. At least forty carved pumpkins crowd around her on the small plot of front yard. I walk up to her, stoop down and introduce myself, complimenting her artwork. I wonder if this is another woman who lives in Bristol alone.  She looks so contented sitting among her pumpkins, like a beaming Buddha. There are angels and devils, screamers, monsters, cartoon characters, and even a pumpkin baby, all of them lit from within by votive candles. Did she work alone or did she have helpers? I see no children nearby, no baby carriage, no swing set, no husband, and I can tell that she is close to my age. This is not the first lone woman I meet in Bristol. My friend, Jen, is one, too. I refer to us as “runaways,” although I have no proof this is so, except in my own case, of course; but I prefer to believe they are like me because it makes me feel more at home.

  

     Bristol gives much attention to this day. After all, it’s a feast day really, referenced by my knowledge of Celtic history and myth. The town takes it seriously with celebrations, bonfires, music, and gatherings. The noise and activity is enough to scare away the dead. The citizens of Bristol party hard because they know that once winter comes to Vermont, there is a feeling that, indeed, everyone is dead. You’ll be lucky if you see your neighbor twice before the end of April.

     But as the new girl in town, I sense life. And the beginnings of belonging.

We Grow Our Own

I step out of my car and throw my arms around Karen, who greets everyone she meets with a hug that exudes warmth. Today I am picking up my Thanksgiving turkey from the small farm she runs with her husband, Louis, who is also my colleague at the college where I work. They raise chickens and turkeys, which they sell at the amazingly low price of $2.75 per pound. I’ve put more than a few friends on to Louis’ poultry. Sometimes I call my sister and other pals and get a count of who wants what and come home with eight or nine birds to divvy up.

A Vermont Chicken House

Today, Louis and his family are at work in the slaughter area of their new barn, so I don’t have an opportunity to say hello to anyone except Karen and their daughter, Annie, who steps into the garage where the meat freezers are kept – where my freshly killed turkey resides. Annie has just finished her lunch break. Like her mother, she wears the long skirts indicative of the dress mode attached to their particular Christian religion (I guess Mennonite, but don’t know for certain,) and an apron stained with blood, but not much because Louis and his team work with precision and care. Annie wipes off her hand to shake mine. She calls me “ma’am” as we are introduced, and I feel surrounded by a kindness that highlights my own lunch hour. Thirty years ago, I might have thought their family ways, “weird.” I might have questioned their religion or the way that they dress, or the fact that they don’t think twice about eating meat they raised themselves, (I know plenty of people who prefer to think of the meat they consume as a commodity, a packaged good only vaguely related to the animal that made the food possible) but since I moved to Addison County, Vermont, my way of thinking about food and community has shifted.

I always thought that I ate well, but I never fully understood how the quality of the food I put into my body makes a difference in my well being, and that the manner by which I obtain and eat my food makes a difference in the condition of the earth. Now, when I make a beet salad or put together one of my baked sweet potato recipes, I am confident the vegetables were raised at Golden Russet or some other farm within thirty miles of my home.  When I cook one of Louis Barnet’s chickens in the crock pot, I know it will be tender and delicious down to the bone, assured that his birds have been raised in a humane way. No schlepping chickens across the country or raising them in controlled monoculture farms – just simple, healthy food grown by a caring and skilled neighbor.

My feelings toward healthier eating correspond with an evolution of awareness that has occurred as I have aged, due in no small part to my Vermont neighbors who invest their hearts and souls into the production and distribution of good food and wine. I am grateful to them all.

Each weekday, I drive past the entrance to the Middlebury College Organic Garden on my way to work.  I can see the garden shed and tidy rows from the distance of the road, but have also visited the garden up close. More than simply plots of vegetables, it is a masterpiece that the College students have tended and cultivated for over eight years. The students have created better ways to grow, including the design of innovative patterns for the rows, improved drainage systems, and refined wind control. It is homegrown state-of-the-art farming. Bumper crops are shared with the College’s dining hall and local food banks, an accomplishment in which the students take pride. They are eager to tell visitors about their garden, and always take time to do so. It’s all the same to them because they love what they do. This project is simply an overspill of the farming methods that have been part of Vermont’s agricultural tradition for many years.

A visit to the organic garden offers a glimpse into paradise. Time stands still. There is nothing to do but work the land and feel it, smell it, watch the sunflowers and the beans, and care for something that nurtures in return.

Middlebury Organic Farm

Each planted row is built on a diagonal to create better drainage; the patterns create a natural path, and as I walk, I am reminded of a labyrinth. The garden is far enough away from the road so that when I am there, I can easily imagine I am standing alone out in the middle of a remote farm field. Perhaps it is the immediacy of the growing vegetables and plants surrounding me that allows me to forget that the College science building looms a half mile to the east of the garden. I wonder how eating, growing or living could arise from any other source than such beautiful land combined with the generosity of spirit that comes from the people who make this garden possible.

The thing about Vermont is that we are a small state with only 623,000 people spread out across approximately 9620 square miles, which allows for a more simple process of raising good, local food.

Many of our neighbors also grow their own gardens. My husband, Charlie, and I grow tomatoes, squash, beans, peppers, and herbs. Before we moved to our new house on the hill in Cornwall, we lived next door in an old farmhouse where the land included open fields that received a good dose of afternoon sun. It took little effort to raise a big, mixed-bag crop of vegetables, but we have adjusted to our new, smaller land configuration by creating raised beds and a terrace, which is built into the south-facing hill. Charlie built the terrace himself with lumber and a delivery of fresh soil. He does the hard work while I serve as consultant and clean-up person. The terrace gets so overgrown by late July that I hesitate to climb down and pick the harvest because I am convinced some type of critter lurks in the underbrush, so if Charlie is away on work travel, I call my nephew for help. Apparently, my city blood runs thick.

I have made the occasional joke about my mother’s menu during my growing-up years, not out of disrespect, but because I marvel at the simplicity with which one can serve fresh broccoli versus canned peas. I’ve read that canned goods were touted after World War II as the most efficient and healthy way to feed a family, my mother being part of that culture. She served meals that included boiled potatoes and canned corn. I don’t think I ate fresh broccoli until I got married and left the house. My mother did use fresh carrots in her pot roast, but in the 1960’s, fresh often meant trucked into town from California on an eighteen-wheeler.

Gardening is a topic of conversation all year long in Vermont, and once March comes, we are pretty much frothing at the bit to get started. We’ve read our seed catalogs, we have dreamed our dreams of spring, and we are ready.

Each year my husband and I spend hours deliberating over which tomato we will plant. Should it be the “Mortgage Lifter,” or the Beefmaster,” for our sandwich type tomatoes? We always choose at least one cherry tomato plant, and Roma’s are essential for sauce.

Preparation for freezing our Roma’s in batches of eight or nine tomatoes is ritual. We get out the steamer, the big pot, the freezer bags and Sharpie pen for labeling, then go to work We repeat this process with green beans, so that well past the season on a wintry day we serve up fresh frozen from our very own garden. Squash cooked in our soup come mid-March conjures up summer memories.

Will Stevens has been growing food organically at Golden Russet Farm in Shoreham for over twenty-five years. Interns help Will in his mission to provide food to the people of Addison County and beyond. He, too, donates to the Burlington Food Bank. Community Supported Agriculture farms (CSA’s) are common in Vermont. Vegetable farms have established web sites where you can join for the season, choosing to purchase only summer vegetables, fall harvest, or both. It’s fun and economical to share the bounty with a friend. Will’s wife, Judy, runs the vegetable stand at their farm, our first and only shopping stop for end-of-May starter plants.

Will and Judy join the ranks of other farmers at the open air Farmer’s Market each Saturday near the center of Middlebury Village at the Marble Works, which is situated on Otter Creek and connected to town by an historical footbridge. Those who live in town often choose to walk though there is ample room for parking. Like mostly everyone, I opt to use a canvas bag for carrying the vegetables and cheese I purchase.

The outdoor Farmers Market runs from May through October. It’s the “in” place to be on a Saturday morning. Fresh produce lures me as does the lively atmosphere. I catch up with friends, my favorite vendors, and even my personal physician, Dayna, who greets me as she gathers her vegetables for the week. People bring their dogs and push baby strollers. The scene, infused with the sounds of bongo drums, guitars, and singers, reminds one of a Phish or Dead concert, only unplugged and way less crowded.

My sister has a table at the market, too. She sells her incredibly delicious baked goods made in her home kitchen with local butter, milk, cheese, herbs, and flour milled here in Vermont. If she happens to produce an over-abundance of cupcakes, no worries. I purchase one at full price, then go off to one of the marble benches by the Falls, and shamelessly consume in a lone (and happy) swift sitting because, of course, I can’t imagine a better way to support my sister.

*******

I have already mentioned my friend, Louis', farm. He raises goats along with turkeys and chickens. It is as his animals live at a resort. At least it seems like a resort compared to the conditions that most mass-produced chickens endure. His chickens are moved around the grounds in safe, sturdy coops, but they do run free much of the time. They eat healthy, natural grain, spend their days in sunlight and fresh air, and as a result, the meat is tender and delicious, not gamey and very lean, no growth hormones added.  The best part of this process, and what makes me feel that eating meat can be a conscious, moral choice is that the birds do not suffer, not while they live, nor during the slaughtering process.

Louis’ wife and daughters hand mill soap and body lotion made from goats’ milk, which they supply to local vendors. His young son, Jon, participates in feeding and watering the birds. One of the geese was a particularly nasty fellow. Jon insisted that when the time came, he wanted to be the one to turn him into supper. Jon is learning early that to stare down one’s food is not only okay, it is an honorable manner by which to obtain sustenance, and actually, the only method Jonathan has ever known.

A few years ago, I took an English course that focused on farming and literature, and what I learned from the authors’ writings and laments about changing landscape informed my perspectives on personal integration with the land and helped me find a way to honor nature while I nurture my body.

My summer classmates and I were challenged by our instructor to prepare a localvore dinner. We committed to cooking with as many local ingredients as possible. The Saturday before our meal, I ran into my classmates at the co-op as they chose basil, tomatoes and local mozzarella for a fresh Capresi salad among other dishes. I prepared organic, local lasagna. I sautéed mushrooms, zucchini and spinach all grown in Addison County, the fragrance of these fresh vegetables a beautiful perfume that wafted through my kitchen. My husband made lasagna from King Arthur Flour, milled on the other side of the mountain. We ran the pasta through a machine then draped the pieces everywhere, scattered like laundry, until they dried.

Lasagna Drying

*********

One of my good friends, a runaway hippie, followed her musician boyfriend from Philadelphia to Vermont in 1970. A modern, fearless Vermont pioneer woman when it comes to taking care of her home and her life, she installs doors on her house, slaps up sheet rock, and tackles all painting jobs no matter the size.

Every spring she chooses a new flock of chicks at the Farm and Garden center, and raises them for meat. She and a friend go halves on the project. She cares for these birds, keeps them safe over late spring and summer months and participates in the slaughter when the time comes. This year, her ex-husband has volunteered to build her a chicken shack. She asked me, “Am I nuts?” If she is, then so am I because I don’t think any single woman in her right mind would turn down a free custom-built chicken coop, even if the offer is made by the “ex.”

My friend also practices extreme kitchen composting. She raises redworms, which she keeps in her basement in a container with moist bedding. What you get with the combination of worms and the micro-organisms arising from feeding the worms’ food waste is a rich compost. My friend lives the meaning of the word “granola” or “hippie” in the most authentic sense. She’s not really about free love any longer, but free compost; and cheap labor, too – her own.

The Middlebury Natural Food Co-op supports local agriculture offering a wide variety of whole, natural and organic foods. As a member, I receive a two percent discount on my purchases. A full member might stock shelves or wrap local cheeses with every hour worked equating to ten percent discount on ninety dollars’ worth of groceries, thus community involvement and membership contributes to the continued success of our co-op.

Farmers Market

I shop at the co-op nearly every day, often on my lunch hour. Located in the center of town not far from the Town Green, it’s an easy walk from my office especially in fair weather. The building itself is a lovely cottage-like structure with barn-red shingles and a charcoal-colored standing seam roof. I read the chalkboard near the entrance, featuring “what’s on sale.” During summer months, the welcome bins might feature local berries, baked tarts from a nearby bakery and heavy cream from Monument Farms located only four miles down the road.

The pleasurable scent of the co-op is a sense memory cultivated over time. The alchemic aroma arises from fresh vegetables, herbs and spices, and I swear as I walk through the store I fall under its spell. There is an abundance of natural health products and beauty aids for sale, mostly Burt’s Bees and Nature’s Gate products. I love when the lavender bath salts go on sale.

The produce department features the farmers’ photos alongside their produce. I learn the names of the people who supply my food and where their farms are located so when I prepare my soup or stew, I remember the face of the person who raised it, sending thanks. Their hard work provides sustenance, and by buying their produce, I, in turn, support their livelihood.

It is often assumed that buying one’s food locally costs more, but the quality of local, fresh, organic food means that, in theory,  one can eat less thus, organic and local equates to money saved and better health. The Japanese saying, Oryoki, applies. Oryoki means "just enough." Modest-sized eating bowls encourage us to eat just enough to remain healthy and feel satisfied. Eating small amounts of quality food means less waste and lower cost, a model the co-op supports.

As I walk through the aisles, I pull out the note from my naturopath. She suggests I take arnica, a homeopathic remedy that will help with inflammation that may arise from upcoming dental work – it’s also helpful in calming muscles after a long, strenuous hike. The experts who work in the supplement and vitamin department are always available to answer any questions.

Mountain Arnica

The prepared food department rescues dinner on a busy day with its freshly made salads, pizzas and sandwiches.  The co-op also carries a generous range of organic and local wine and beer. The co-op’s wine buyer possesses the expertise of a sommelier, always ready to recommend the perfect vintage of Syrah for my dinner party.

******

It is now high summer. Fields and gardens yield crops of squash, tomatoes, and green beans, bounty lasting well into early winter. Vermont summers include music festivals, pick-your-own-berry farms, and Fourth of July parades. This year, Lincoln Peak Vineyard is hosting its one-year anniversary with a Grand Opening.

Lincoln Peak Winery

I’ve tasted these wines before, Black Sparrow, a gentle white, my favorite. Charlie and I stopped by for a private tasting during Lincoln Peak’s first vintage last year. The wine is very new, slightly sweet, so we agree that it needs some time, but we’re willing to sit with it for a while with hopes of giving over our palate to this new, locally cultivated wine, a concept unheard of until recent years when the vintner experimented with the grapes cultivated in the University of Minnesota’s cold-weather grape program.

The vintner grew apples and strawberries on this land prior to growing grapes. The land remembers the berries and apples, which affects the terroir, along with the other special characteristics that live within the soil. Geographical history integrates with the grapes and affects the flavors that result in this new wine. The vineyard is the realization of one farmer’s vision, and today the vintner shares his success with the community.

Charlie and I mingle with other guests, then join in on a tour of the winery. The vats and cask room are immaculate and organized, and our questions are answered about the process, the seasonal timetable, and the wine itself.

After the tour, I meander out front where others relax under a pergola laced with purple clematis while listening to a folksy Cajun band hired just for the occasion.

I stroll out beyond the perimeter of the little building and find an Adirondack chair where I rest for a moment. I feel comfortable as if sitting in my own backyard. From a distance, I watch others pass through the front doorway onto the patio and grounds. They speak to each other as Vermonters often do, with a sense of warmth and appreciation for living in the moment.

I fling my legs over the side of my chair, eye towards Mt. Abraham to the east. Today, Mt. Abe, the tallest peak in Addison County, stands testament to nature’s abundance.  Vermonters do answer to deadlines and our days are full, but life moves a little slower on this Vermont summer afternoon. It just does.

EAT GOOD FOOD

Charlie and I loaded up the car and left for Wellsboro, PA, early on Saturday morning. My dad was at The Green Home rehabilitating after his fall. It was important to visit him and my mom, for whom I was also concerned. She had been traveling to and from their home to Wellsboro for over a month. I hoped she wouldn’t entirely wear out. Now my dad is doing better, and they are back home.

But I am here to report on Charlie’s and my food escapades through southern New York State and northern Pennsylvania during the weekend. Travel often means road food, or at least strange-diner food.

Our first stop is always Starbucks off the interstate in Saratoga Springs. My sense memory conjures the aroma of nearly-burned dark roast and other comforting smells associated with Starbucks worldwide. Pushing through the doors is always a heady pleasure. I ordered hot chocolate with a shot of hazelnut and Charlie had a tall house. Our consumer appetites sated, we continued on our way.

Upon arriving in Wellsboro’s quaint downtown, we visited dad. When we got back to my parents’ home, the three of us agreed to reconvene at 5 p.m. at P&J’s Restaurant on Main Street after Charlie and I checked into our B&B and my mother went to 4 o’clock Mass.

I’ve eaten at P&J’s for breakfast before. I had the “stuffed muffin,” or in McDonald-speak, an Egg McMuffin. The sandwich was cheesy and appropriately greasy.  P&J’s dinner menu was only a bit more elaborate, featuring usual small diner fare, which included hamburger steak. Let me interpret – the dish is hamburger, flattened out into the shape of a steak, then smothered in mashed potatoes and the most unnaturally dark brown gravy I have ever seen. My mother ordered this – it’s her favorite. I had scallops, my husband asked for fried chicken. He and I also requested a dinner salad. We got pale iceberg chunks with bits of tomato.

The smell of sizzling lard and very little noise emanated from P&J’s kitchen despite the fact there were about 20 customers. Our server, Jeff, is the “J” in “P&J’s.” The “P” stands for Peggy, Jeff’s wife and lone cook on the premises. Chefly chores don’t seem to interfere too much with Peggy’s side interests of TV watching and computer games at the back of the restaurant.

When we returned to our room, Charlie and I had a huddle. I whispered so that our hosts couldn’t possibly hear me, “My scallops had to have been shaken out of a big freezer bag and probably nuked.” One of Peggy’s main duties was most likely to count out the tiny scallops. One, two, three . . . the menu had promised 20 pieces.  Charlie’s chicken was of the same industrial ilk as my scallops. But we were hungry, so we ate.  And we chided ourselves for being food snobs.

The next morning, we stopped at One ‘Heck’ of a Place, a local truck stop on the way to Wellsboro. This restaurant is owned by The Heck Family. Mr. Heck looked like a mountain hillbilly, or a leftover hippie. Either way, he was very friendly and very hairy. The syrup on my French toast was corn syrup, not the pure maple I was accustomed to as a Vermonter.  The bacon was super greasy and a bit rubbery, and by now, Charlie and I were dying to reconnect with our farm fresh, Vermont roots. If a head of romaine were to have fallen from one of the food trucks driving through town, I would have pulled over, picked it up from the road and eaten the entire thing on site.  I wondered how the locals didn’t have scurvy, and I fretted over my parents’ eating habits even though it’s a little late to be worrying about that now since they are in their eighties and are the first ones who would consider me a food snob. They grew up in a different era when the convenience of canned and processed foods was touted as the new version of good food.

By Sunday night after a turkey club sandwich at Lee’s Kitchen and my subsequent severe stomach ache that caused me to fold into fetal position, Charlie and I decided to forgive ourselves. We aren’t food snobs at all.

Although I realize these small dining establishments are the owners’ livelihoods, I also realize that we are fortunate and enlightened when it comes to food. In Vermont, there is a consciousness about local, healthy food that was part of its everyday culture before the term, “local”, came into vogue and featured in The New Yorker magazine’s jokes and articles. We understand that the food we eat affects our well being so we do our best to look for food value, and by that I don’t mean how cheap we can get it, but how much health can be gained through its consumption.

Here in Addison County, Vermont, small farms deliver fresh vegetables, cheese, eggs, meat and fruit to small grocery stores daily and weekly. During the winter, there are hydroponic veggies available from local growers. Food is provided seasonally, and if we can’t grow it, our co-ops source it from reliable providers from as close by as possible. Packaged foods are screened for healthy production practices and much of it complies with high standards.

The pictures of the women and men who grow our food are hung above the bins of sweet potatoes, organic mesclun and rutabagas. These people work within and for our community, more like extended family members than vendors or nearly invisible farmers from far away. Cheeses are individually hand-wrapped and marked with labels that note the farms where they were made.  Charlie and I, like many of our friends and neighbors, nurture our own gardens and cultivate tomatoes, squash and beans, which we freeze and enjoy well into winter months. Healthy food is the norm. And yes, I’ll admit it. Occasionally, I will indulge in a corporately-concocted Starbucks latte.

Frozen industrial bits out of big plastic bags disconcert, and will hopefully become unacceptable and passé for everyone in the near future. A lot of education and local and organic farm management needs to happen. Vermont, along with other communities who care about their food, will remain trailblazers, models of healthful food education. For now, sadly, I suspect, most of America eats at P& J’s Restaurant.

Love & Fear

My friend went to the doctor's recently because she was tired of the pain. She's had a long relationship with various physical maladies and discomfort, but she bears it well - probably too well. She's a non-complainer, and I admire her, but it didn't erase the fact that something was going on in her body that required exploration. After a battery of tests and several days of worry prompted by the doctor's use of the "C" word, it was a relief to get the news that although she has a condition that requires surgery, she is cancer-free. She came in to my office today to tell me about it, and we shared a hug in celebration.

In the meantime, a family friend was diagnosed with bone cancer. The notion of this burly man, who five years ago, lifted a refrigerator right before my eyes, now being relegated to treatments and support groups with no hope of truly getting better, breaks our hearts. And it continues to stun me, though I've known since I was a little girl, that we all must die.

And now, the bad news has moved even closer to home. My mother called the other evening to tell me that my dad fell and broke his pelvis. Already in a delicate condition due to congestive heart disease, I realize his prognosis is not good. He has a loving wife and six children who adore him, but none of us can undo the fall. We can't be at the hospital because we don't live nearby. My mother, who has been married to my dad for sixty-three years, must travel back and forth from the hospital alone every day. There are many hours when he is at the hospital, in a strange place being cared for by strangers. 

He wants out of there. He pulled out his IV. He can't sleep. He tries to get out of bed. He'll be sent to rehab (read: nursing home) for God knows how long. The one thing he dreaded, going to a nursing home facility, is now a reality. I have a lot of faith, but it's easy right now to say that I don't understand  "why." How do we live our lives only to come to this? I know I'm not the first person to ask this question. But rather than bemoaning our family situation and my dad's health, I choose to send him love. And I'll keep a little for myself.

I imagine that when I visit him next week, I might bring a few recordings of his favorite music and just let it play softly in his room. A few years ago, my brother gave Daddy an iPod. My brother had loaded it with my dad's favorite music - Sinatra, '40s tunes, swing. My brother placed the iPod in his hands. My dad thanked him and gave a listen. "Can I take this thing to heaven with me?" he asked. 

It's better to remember the love. 

Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Donut Day, Fat Tuesday, Whatever . . .

I grew up Catholic, which meant during Lent, we'd give up something that we loved. As a kid, I gave up candy, and all after-school visits to the corner store became off-limits. I'm pretty sure I never once stuck to this commitment during all those years of pseudo-sacrifice, but my intentions were honorable.

As an adult, I've come to the conclusion that it's more productive and spiritually cleansing if we actually do something, rather than abstain. So continue to eat chocolate and don't deny yourself an occasional glass of wine. In place of those restriction, practice patience when you think you have none left. Offer to carry an older person's groceries to her car. No swearing when traffic backs up at the rotary. Donate to a charitable organization. Instead of creating absence, make the love.

But for now, it's still the day before Lent, and I encourage you to indulge yourself one more time before we start fresh tomorrow on Ash Wednesday. In our town, we don't have a proper bakery, but the bagel bakery makes donuts, too. And they aren't bad, not at all. Happy Donut Day!

Road Trips

Art & Pat with Niece, Julia

My sister and I visited our 80-something-year-old parents this past weekend. We like to call these visits “sissy road trips.”  Barring my sister’s occasional motion sickness, these trips are fun. We make stops at Starbucks and laugh our way across the southern tier of New York State into Pennsylvania where my parents live. We bring an amazing dinner to share with mom and dad. It’s the same every time – chicken cutlets, homemade baked beans made by my husband, and potato casserole. My sister usually bakes a wonderful dessert. They eat this meal with gusto, and we join in at their small dining table in their cozy, little apartment.  Conversation flows. Occasionally, we must help my dad keep up with the conversation because his memory isn’t what it used to be.

It’s six hours one-way to get to my parents’ home. They live in a mostly rural area in a depressed little town.  I can’t even refer to it as a village like we do here in Vermont.  The drive and visit take approximately thirty-two hours total - it's a marathon.  My parents cannot accommodate us overnight, so we stay at a local bed and breakfast called Marigold Manor, a gorgeous Victorian a block away from my parents’ place.  

I wish we could see them more often, but somehow we manage not to do that. Twice a year seems to be the norm. Four other siblings who visit in between, spread out the cheer; and we all keep in touch by phone. I don’t consider visiting my parents a duty, nor is it a bore. I basically adore my mom and dad. But they chose to move away when they retired twenty years ago. And for all this time, they lived as they pleased. He groomed their acres of field on his riding mower. She tended a garden and fed the birds at their small home until they couldn’t maintain it any longer.

They’ve gotten through a few health crises. They experienced a weird accident when their car went off a rainy road and into a ditch. My mother prayed their way out of it and a passer-by called a tow truck. They were not hurt. I found out about the accident a couple of months later. Older parents can be secretive.  My parents always said they didn’t want to be a burden. I think they think they’re protecting us. In some ways, I guess that’s true, not that we asked to be let off the hook, and we all realize that the situation could change for them at any minute – that they’d have to move into a nursing home or perhaps back to New Jersey where my brothers and other sister live.

They don’t live under our noses so we aren’t saturated with the constant awareness of their decline. We can go off to work each day, hang out with friends, live our lives; and our parents become vague icons, people we visit and remember, but don’t interact with daily the way we did when we were children and young adults. We don’t know that the doctor ordered more tests. We don’t know when one of their friends dies.  We don’t know mom has painful arthritis.  It’s how my parents want it. I liken it to a forced separation. I wonder if they think that when the time comes and they are gone, we won’t feel the void so much. But my parents are wonderful people in many ways.  They would never be a burden, and about not feeling that void? I’m pretty sure they’re wrong about that.

Today Is Her Birthday - Marie

As a child, I would steal away to her room alone, crossing the threshold into cool silence as if entering a shrine scented with lavender. Circumambulating from altar to altar . . . nightstand, cedar chest, dresser . . . I observed objects she deemed sacred – family photos, heirloom silver hairbrush and mirror, rosary, statue of Mary. This was my godmother’s sanctuary. I knew her as my aunt, too, but who and what she was could be defined many ways. Old maid, creative baker, benefactor, caregiver, holy woman.  This room bore her imprint, a space sanctioned for retreat and prayer.

She loved all shades of purple. The walls of her room were painted just the right hue, woodwork a stark white contrast. I’d lie across her white chenille bedspread, tiny pom-poms sewn on top, which pock-marked my bare legs if I stayed too long. As I gazed out her window, gauzy curtains seemed a veil between her inside life and the world. The view of her garden evoked memory – a green canvass hammock still secured between sheltering oak trees where she once sang Row Row Row Your Boat and rocked me until I fell asleep.

Northern People

It’s February 2. The groundhog emerges from his earthly cave offering the forecast that either spring will come early indicated by his eagerness to remain outside; or he’ll scurry back to his winter dreams for another six weeks. The groundhog is a totem symbolizing the ability to open fully to our dreams and embrace the great unconsciousness without fear or harm, which to me, is one of the major themes of winter – time for rest and introspection.  February 2 is also the Celtic feast of Imbolc, a cross-quarter holy day signifying the onset of spring. This day celebrates the Celtic goddess, Brigid, in the name of fertility and purification, at a time when spring rose into the hearts of those who endured many long nights. So at a moment when we acknowledge going inward, we do a turnabout, resilient and in time with the cycles of the earth.

Although I love my Vermont winters, soon the time will come when I will feel the same as those ancient people. Whether the weather remains cold and no matter what the calendar says, our nature dictates we move out of the darkness, that great unconsciousness, and into the light.  

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

Bands of gray and cream streaked across the morning sky today. Not a speck of snow covered the ground although it is mid-January. In past years, at least a foot or more has fallen by now and this base accepts the little snows that fall sporadically for days in succession. A melt doesn't occur until at least March; most likely, April. But today, I wait. I've become a weather hawk, and life won't seem right until we get a big storm, the kind where there's nothing to do but stay home from work because I won't make it down my steep driveway until Sean, our snowplow guy, arrives. The day before, I'll shop for groceries. I'll stock chocolate, cinnamon and flour for baking; and carrots, potatoes and celery to make a hearty soup. My husband will bake some bread, a chore he's getting better at all the time. We'll settle in with the cats, some books and yes - the boob tube as long as we still have power. We'll be reminded of winters passed and kindled with the hope that winter and the seasons have not given up on us.

Grapevine and Shed - February Storm 2007