Johanna Halbeisen
Expanding My World
In looking at their contact with other people, most of the people I know are mourning the loss of contact with friends, family and social occasions, as well as just being with people in a park, store, theater and beyond. I, too, hunger for actual in person contact, but my contact with other people has dramatically increased with the coming of COVID 19. That’s because with a disability that makes leaving my house difficult, virtual events have opened up worlds I haven’t had access to for many years.
I’ve attended more concerts since March than I had in the previous ten years. Last night I was lying in my bed thoroughly enjoying the music and the banter of the participants, each participating from home.
Using the chat function of Zoom, I was able to say hi to other people in the audience, ask questions and make comments for the performers who were reading the chat and responding. At the end of the concert, there was a short time when audience members could speak directly to the performers. While our attempts at singing together with our mics unmuted was a disaster, the rest of the experience was wonderful.
As a member of the Quaker meeting in Northampton, I’ve been able to attend the worship, discussions, committee meetings and several study groups, most of which would have been unavailable if they were not virtual.
Some virtual events would have been impossible if in person. I had a birthday open house on Zoom and people from Vermont, Iowa, Boston, California and England came. I attended a poetry reading with participants and audience from all over the United States. I was a part of a virtual Passover Seder with members of my far-flung family. Our virtual Quaker worship time regularly has a man from England and
a man from California attending.
My doctor’s office has a weekly chronic illness support group. There is no way I could have attended that before it started on Zoom. At least half the group can come regularly because it is virtual. I can consult with members of my medical team without having to travel to do so.
I am deeply grateful that my vision and hearing allow all this contact, to say nothing of having a relatively steady internet access and computer equipment to use it. One way I’ve coped with some of the awfulness of the pandemic and the political situation is by collecting humor about it and sharing it with friends, thanks to email. Now, that’s a piece of history one can track through jokes!
Elizabeth Silver
My wife (Lee Badgett) and I refer to this as our Creative Journaling through the Pandemic. We were inspired by our friend Liz Denny - a real artist - who creates the most beautiful advent calendars each year based on her every day activities. So back in March, when our world started to shrink, we decided to keep a little record of our days. It's been a fun project, mapping daily events and activities (and my really terrible artistry - anything that is recognizable in it was drawn by Lee). We're lining our mudroom walls with each page, as two months of entries is completed.
Christian McEwen
The Voices Return
In a bittersweet twist, the surreal slowdown of life as we know it has presented researchers with a rare opportunity to study the modern world under some truly bizarre conditions…
Marina Koren
Janey Winter lives by herself on the borders of Provincetown. A year-round resident and working artist, she has known the place for more than sixty years. But soon after the coronavirus lockdown, she heard something utterly new from her back porch — “a big long roar — a horizontal roar — that beat below everything — a cosmic sound.” It was, of course, the Atlantic Ocean, always, till now, obscured by the churn of the daily traffic. “I couldn’t believe it,” Winter told me. The following month it was written up in the local paper. “Even people in town could hear it!” But she herself had noticed it much earlier -- two full weeks ahead of the editorial — and was gleefully delighted by that fact.
Similar discoveries are being made across the globe, as planes are grounded, cruises canceled, trains and buses set to run less frequently. The family car sits idle in the driveway. Motor-bikes are stalled. Ordinary vibrations caused by human activity (biking, running, walking, even shopping) have been reduced to almost nil. And with that comes an unprecedented opportunity to listen.
“I used to think there weren’t really birds in Wuhan,” wrote Rebecca Franks on her Facebook page, “because you rarely saw them and never heard them.” In fact, they had simply been drowned out by the relentless human traffic. NPR correspondents Eleanor Beardsley and Sylvia Poggioli both had similar stories. Beardsley had heard egrets on the Seine for the first time ever, and Poggioli (based in Rome) had been taken aback by the sheer volume of the dawn chorus. That avian orchestra, proclaiming spring, was for her, she said, “almost too loud.”
With human noise on pause, seismologists, naturalists, and other professional listeners have been seizing the chance to record how Earth sounds, uninterrupted. In the U.K., seismologist Paula Koelemeijer was happy to learn that a 5.5 magnitude earthquake (usually inaudible) could suddenly be heard in Central London. Across Europe, the Silent Cities project has called forth an army of volunteers (scientists, journalists, artists and interested amateurs), eager to track “the little sounds of every day” — from bees nuzzling deep into scented blossoms to tiny beetles foraging about among the leaves.
For years now, too many of us have been moving through the world in a daze of our own making. We have grown oblivious to the voices of the birds and the trees, the mountains and the rivers. As Thomas Berry puts it, “We have broken the great conversation,” thoughtlessly inured to talking only to ourselves.
But as lockdown continues, and the voices filter back, that conversation has a chance to be repaired. Deprived of their usual work-outs at the gym, people begin to walk outside more regularly, enjoying the natural benefits (less stress, lowered blood-pressure, more and better sleep), whilst also responding to the ambient sound. A friend in the Scottish Highlands reports on a pair of cuckoos calling back and forth across the glen (the male higher, the female lower, throatier). Neighbors in Vermont remark on the shrill of the spring peepers, the creak and sway of the tall pines. Birdsong seems notably louder, more widespread. With human traffic so drastically reduced, birds no longer have to raise their voices to compete with cars and trucks. They can focus on courtship, on providing for their nestlings. They are able, very literally, to sleep in. It seems likely that 2020 will be a bonanza year for birds: with larger, healthier broods and more relaxed and happier parents.
With luck, that ease of being can extend to us as well. At some point as yet unknown to us, COVID-19 will be contained, and the usual human racket will return. Meanwhile, we can relish the opportunity to slow down and pay attention, not just to the chatter in our heads, but to all the other myriad sounds. Because if these last weeks have taught us anything it’s that the natural world has plenty to say for itself — from the scurrying of insects to that rich, deep ocean roar — and all we have to do is stop and listen.
Jane Yolen
I think writers. illustrators, painters who are used to staying at home in the studio and working all day have
an easier time of this "house rest or arrest" thing. No one rings the door for a cuppa. No one wants to have a lunch, dinner with me.
No one wants a book signed or a speech given or a class taught.
Even my Smith College 60th Reunion--which I was looking forward to-has become a three day opportunity to Get More Done.
My fiance and I walk the dog on forest paths where no one else is. But otherwise we read, write, read what
we have written to one another. In our 16 day (so far) lock down I have written 23 poems (some even good), four chapters of a novel
under contract, and am beta-reading a friend's new novel as well. I have written two new picture books, and done editorial-driven revisions
on three others.That might have taken three months or more without the Stay-at-Home regime.
The children and grands and friends and I keep touch quite a bit on line, on the phone, through skype.
This Make Lemonade time is working for me. But I am still daily aware (through through NYTimes and CNN an d MSNBC) and obituary notices, of those who are suffering, who are sick, who are dying. And if I could, I would give back the extra work days to have saved them all.
an easier time of this "house rest or arrest" thing. No one rings the door for a cuppa. No one wants to have a lunch, dinner with me.
No one wants a book signed or a speech given or a class taught.
Even my Smith College 60th Reunion--which I was looking forward to-has become a three day opportunity to Get More Done.
My fiance and I walk the dog on forest paths where no one else is. But otherwise we read, write, read what
we have written to one another. In our 16 day (so far) lock down I have written 23 poems (some even good), four chapters of a novel
under contract, and am beta-reading a friend's new novel as well. I have written two new picture books, and done editorial-driven revisions
on three others.That might have taken three months or more without the Stay-at-Home regime.
The children and grands and friends and I keep touch quite a bit on line, on the phone, through skype.
This Make Lemonade time is working for me. But I am still daily aware (through through NYTimes and CNN an d MSNBC) and obituary notices, of those who are suffering, who are sick, who are dying. And if I could, I would give back the extra work days to have saved them all.
Throughout this page and others, we will be posting haiku submitted to the Montview Neighborhood Listserv.
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Stay Inside? Step out?
Wagging tail happy dog grin Shoes? Mask? Leash? Let’s go! -Anitta Sawyer |
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Scourge of the parents
Screen time, blue light Surprise! Turns out we need it all -Lynn Yanis |
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Don't answer the door
Don't take a shower —Unexpected pleasures! -Lynn Yanis |
Anonymous, 17
Now can be the perfect and most tempting time to drift away on your phone, making TikToks, watching all the Netflix and YouTube you can. But in reality you are wasting a perfect opportunity to find yourself, find hidden talents, learn something you always wanted to know how to do, or even just go outside and enjoy the sun. I have learned this the hard way, playing countless hours of Fortnite and watching every interesting thing I can, but I did some math. Seven hours out of a 14 hour day and then adding on the time for school, that is amazing to me. The days are getting nicer, daylight hours are getting longer, and we as the younger generation are inside staring at a life sucking device, unable to take our eyes from it. So, my word of advice to generations to come that may face similar pandemics or anything of that nature, fill your time wisely and find yourself during these hard times, it will come to be beneficial in the future and you may be happier because of it.
Taylor R. Raucher
It seems as though the world became exponentially smaller during quarantine. When rumors started swirling of a “stay in a place” in mid March, I packed up some essentials from my apartment, put my cats in the car, and drove to my parents’ house, where my sister was already staying. The thought of being home by myself during this unsure, unplanned time of quarantine seemed frightening and lonely.
We all quickly settled into our own routines: books and movies, the occasional game, checking in on relatives over Facetime and text. And suddenly our world became tiny, its edges only expanding as far as the walls of the house. Our days revolved in and around our home. And isolation fast became a little maddening.
The news became repetitive and disheartening. It was hard to watch, and so it was easier to ignore any updates that were happening on television and instead turn to our devices. Sleeping schedules soon stretched late into the days, which we didn’t care about as there were never any imminent plans to awaken for. Disagreements rose almost nightly about what to watch or do, until a compromise was made or we each went off to be entertained by our individual choices. The days began to blur into one another, and soon I lost all sense of what day it was. But that just didn’t seem to matter; every day felt the same. It was cyclical and nauseating.
Soon each day became about finding small moments of joy. Survival, fortunately, seemed to be a given, but happiness wasn’t. It was in the little instances of laughter that made the days brighter and the time pass by faster. From drawing challenges and dance battles, to funny videos and stories, the moments of laughter helped make the world feel a little less claustrophobic.
Before the outbreak, I had applied to a graduate program for creative writing. During quarantine, I received an acceptance email. It was a mix of emotions for me, as I was overjoyed to be starting a new chapter of my life, but there was still so much uncertainty surrounding how this would be accomplished. I chose to be optimistic, and decided to devote time each day to writing, expressing my thoughts and documenting my feelings during this strange time. Taking a moment to be reflective and making space to be creative each day gave me hope, and it gave me a sense of peace in this confusing, discouraging time.
Despite how small the world appears to be, and how far away a return to normalcy feels, I am grateful for my own fortune during this time. My family can be quite fun to be around, but we understand when to give each other space. We, as all as extended family members, have remained healthy, which I am most thankful for. I have a warm, safe place to sleep at night and food to eat. I have something to look forward to in the near future. The most important lesson I think I have learned during this uncharted terrain is that I can survive, and perhaps even thrive, in a small existence; the world doesn’t need to feel expansive for me to know joy and love and to dream.
Katie Hereld
To read Katie Hereld's thoughts from later in the pandemic, click here.
Pan-Demic and other Treasures from my Pantry
My car’s idle is idle as it sits, an oversized turtle in my driveway; nowhere to go, the same tank of gas for near a month now. My filthy lucre is clean, untouched for more than a week and germ-free, with no shop open, no place safe enough to change hands.
The silence of my guestless house threatens to suffocate, so I fill the space with radio news — but not so much as to risk being overwhelmed by helplessness in a needy world. I listen only enough to know how badly the world is hurting and to know when it will once again be safe to share touch and breath with others.
When the radio is not on, I fill the void with the sounds of pots clanging, onions sizzling. I fill my sensory void with sights of steam rising from the tea kettle, sunset light shining through the kitchen window, reflecting orange off my microwave. Where I lack the chance to touch others, I touch the comfort of dough molding to the movement of my hands, the familiar heft of a kitchen knife. I smell garlic and childhood mixed in a pan whose olive oil is so hot it sets off the smoke detector. I taste the smooth, rich flavor of fresh cream left on the wooden mixing spoon. On a different spoon, a tongue-prickling drop of Siracha to balance the sweet, the salty, and the sour of my vegetable sauce. Though it is only me, my house is full, alive, a sensory haven from the storm of sickness outside my door — the storm that stretches through my neighborhood, my state, my country, my world.
My pantry, my fridge, my freezer, and extra time have gifted me. My hands have made the perfect quiche: golden eggs, bacon, and cheese. Who knew I could make pie crust from scratch? My wok has produced the perfect stir-fry: Chinese broccoli, cloud’s ear mushrooms, and lotus root. Who knew fungus and swamp plants would taste so good? My rice cooker has steamed a red rice that looks like a New England fall landscape. Who knew rice came in red? Even my freezer has created a delectable, ice cream maker-less matcha green tea granita. (Who knew this green powder that looks like ground up spring leaves [having sat in my pantry for so long] could bring music to my silent mouth?) My liquor cabinet and my spice shelf, combined with time, have synergized into a winter-dispelling after-dinner drink, warm with cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and clove. Who knew a beverage could be an artistic project? Though it is only me, my plate and my house are full.
I have made it through another week of isolation by entertaining my kitchen fantasies. I have sealed myself off from contact as directed. I have occupied my mind and hands to prevent having to think too hard about those drowning in unemployment debt, drowning from their body’s reaction to an unseen foe, drowning in tears for their family’s losses.
I count myself lucky, blessed, chosen by a fate that has no place in a sensible world. Why do I get off so lightly? Of course I feel that niggling stress every time I cough, sniffle, sneeze, of have a brief chill — is this “It”? I feel that fear of losing friends and family and of not being able to mourn collectively. And there is the occasional touch (or lack thereof) of loneliness. But my life will resume on the other side changed, but relatively unscathed. The highest cost I am paying now (paltry in comparison to the suffering of so many others) is the realization of my good fortune and the responsibility it carries to give some of that good fortune to those without.
And of course there is the heaviness of all those fears I have tried so hard to stuff down with my delicious, unshared food. When this pandemic is over and I finally step step back on the scale, I will find those buried feelings and deal with them — all Co-vid 19 pounds of them — a small price to pay for survival.
My car’s idle is idle as it sits, an oversized turtle in my driveway; nowhere to go, the same tank of gas for near a month now. My filthy lucre is clean, untouched for more than a week and germ-free, with no shop open, no place safe enough to change hands.
The silence of my guestless house threatens to suffocate, so I fill the space with radio news — but not so much as to risk being overwhelmed by helplessness in a needy world. I listen only enough to know how badly the world is hurting and to know when it will once again be safe to share touch and breath with others.
When the radio is not on, I fill the void with the sounds of pots clanging, onions sizzling. I fill my sensory void with sights of steam rising from the tea kettle, sunset light shining through the kitchen window, reflecting orange off my microwave. Where I lack the chance to touch others, I touch the comfort of dough molding to the movement of my hands, the familiar heft of a kitchen knife. I smell garlic and childhood mixed in a pan whose olive oil is so hot it sets off the smoke detector. I taste the smooth, rich flavor of fresh cream left on the wooden mixing spoon. On a different spoon, a tongue-prickling drop of Siracha to balance the sweet, the salty, and the sour of my vegetable sauce. Though it is only me, my house is full, alive, a sensory haven from the storm of sickness outside my door — the storm that stretches through my neighborhood, my state, my country, my world.
My pantry, my fridge, my freezer, and extra time have gifted me. My hands have made the perfect quiche: golden eggs, bacon, and cheese. Who knew I could make pie crust from scratch? My wok has produced the perfect stir-fry: Chinese broccoli, cloud’s ear mushrooms, and lotus root. Who knew fungus and swamp plants would taste so good? My rice cooker has steamed a red rice that looks like a New England fall landscape. Who knew rice came in red? Even my freezer has created a delectable, ice cream maker-less matcha green tea granita. (Who knew this green powder that looks like ground up spring leaves [having sat in my pantry for so long] could bring music to my silent mouth?) My liquor cabinet and my spice shelf, combined with time, have synergized into a winter-dispelling after-dinner drink, warm with cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and clove. Who knew a beverage could be an artistic project? Though it is only me, my plate and my house are full.
I have made it through another week of isolation by entertaining my kitchen fantasies. I have sealed myself off from contact as directed. I have occupied my mind and hands to prevent having to think too hard about those drowning in unemployment debt, drowning from their body’s reaction to an unseen foe, drowning in tears for their family’s losses.
I count myself lucky, blessed, chosen by a fate that has no place in a sensible world. Why do I get off so lightly? Of course I feel that niggling stress every time I cough, sniffle, sneeze, of have a brief chill — is this “It”? I feel that fear of losing friends and family and of not being able to mourn collectively. And there is the occasional touch (or lack thereof) of loneliness. But my life will resume on the other side changed, but relatively unscathed. The highest cost I am paying now (paltry in comparison to the suffering of so many others) is the realization of my good fortune and the responsibility it carries to give some of that good fortune to those without.
And of course there is the heaviness of all those fears I have tried so hard to stuff down with my delicious, unshared food. When this pandemic is over and I finally step step back on the scale, I will find those buried feelings and deal with them — all Co-vid 19 pounds of them — a small price to pay for survival.
CHINESE BROCCOLI STIR FRY
1/2 cup dried cloud’s ear mushrooms (dried shiitake mushrooms will also work)
1 cup boiling water
1/4 cup peanut or olive oil
1 large onion
1 bunch Chinese broccoli (broccoli crowns can work also)
2-4 cloves crushed garlic
1 package frozen lotus root (or a combo of canned/drained bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, and/or baby corn)
Sauce:
1/4 cup corn starch
2 Tbs soy sauce
Leftover soaking water from the dried mushrooms
2 Tbs Mirin (or sweet sherry)
1 Tbs rice wine
1/8 tsp red pepper flakes (optional and to taste)
Directions:
1) Combine the dried mushrooms and boiling water and let soak for 15 minutes.
2) While the mushrooms soak, clean and prepare all ingredients for the stir fry.
3) Drain the mushrooms and reserve the soaking water. Add the rest of the sauce ingredients into the soaking water and stir.
4) In a large, high-sided frying pan or wok heat the oil on heat until just starting to smoke (or a drop of water sizzles when it hits the oil.
5) Add the onions and stir/cook until translucent, about 1 minute. Add the broccoli and stir/cook until just starting to caramelize and turn bright green. Add the crushed garlic and stir for another minute.
6) Now add the mushrooms and the sauce. (Be sure to stir the sauce before adding it.). Stir for approximately one more minute or until the sauce becomes shiny and coats the vegetables. Serve hot and enjoy.
1/2 cup dried cloud’s ear mushrooms (dried shiitake mushrooms will also work)
1 cup boiling water
1/4 cup peanut or olive oil
1 large onion
1 bunch Chinese broccoli (broccoli crowns can work also)
2-4 cloves crushed garlic
1 package frozen lotus root (or a combo of canned/drained bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, and/or baby corn)
Sauce:
1/4 cup corn starch
2 Tbs soy sauce
Leftover soaking water from the dried mushrooms
2 Tbs Mirin (or sweet sherry)
1 Tbs rice wine
1/8 tsp red pepper flakes (optional and to taste)
Directions:
1) Combine the dried mushrooms and boiling water and let soak for 15 minutes.
2) While the mushrooms soak, clean and prepare all ingredients for the stir fry.
3) Drain the mushrooms and reserve the soaking water. Add the rest of the sauce ingredients into the soaking water and stir.
4) In a large, high-sided frying pan or wok heat the oil on heat until just starting to smoke (or a drop of water sizzles when it hits the oil.
5) Add the onions and stir/cook until translucent, about 1 minute. Add the broccoli and stir/cook until just starting to caramelize and turn bright green. Add the crushed garlic and stir for another minute.
6) Now add the mushrooms and the sauce. (Be sure to stir the sauce before adding it.). Stir for approximately one more minute or until the sauce becomes shiny and coats the vegetables. Serve hot and enjoy.
Kamas Choi
Our Fiddle Orchestra of Western Mass rehearsals are now virtual! Annika Amstutz, one of our directors, sends out inspirational/instructional videos and we play along. Building up a set of new tunes to play together in person soon, we hope!
Donna Kurkul
To read more of Donna Kurkul's thoughts from later in the pandemic, click here.
COVID-19 Walk
March 30, 2020
So here I am taking my walk as usual but in the COVID-19 world. It’s spring, but I’m dressed for a cloudy, damp 42-degrees. At this time of day, it’s pretty much the same as it would be on a quiet Sunday morning. Sparse traffic. No people about. I always ponder walking alone like this, how it might be in a world where I am THE only one left. It feels peaceful…freeing. Would I get lonely? I don’t think so. Do I really care about encountering another human? Not really. I relish the solitude…and the magnitude of nature. I think that I would find ways to survive until I couldn’t.
A neighbor is burning his trash in his stove or fireplace and dark thick smoke reeking of burnt plastic is emitting from his cinder block chimney which I swear will be on fire one day. I turn and walk opposite the smell and density of the smoke. Many neighbors burn wood. One can sometimes see remnants of blackened burned newspaper, thin, diaphanous wafting downward in the wind towards the ground. And people think that Hadley is not polluted!
I walk up Mt. Warner Road towards the top of the hill and stop atop the farmed plateau. I stop and listen for the spring peepers in the nearby pond, those tiny frogs that burrow all winter while their little bodies become torpid and reawaken in spring and sing next to vernal pools throughout the area. Looking around, there is a raptor, a large hawk. It’s mom, I always say. She said she’d come back as a hawk so she could look down upon the earth and watch over me.
Farther uphill on the road adjacent to the Mt. Warner conservation area, I notice the absence of life…no birds…no squirrels. No cars pass me. No one is driving at this moment during our Massachusetts quarantine. I pass the two homes recently built on the hillside of the mountain. There are cars parked. People are staying home as required. The silence is bliss.
On the left is the deep ravine. Absent spring foliage, I can see deeply through the leafless trees and spy a tiny darkened rivulet through the ravine’s bottom. Aha! There IS a brook. A closer look along my walk confirms it. I wonder where the origin is. Every spring waters flow down the mountain as snow melts and hillsides drain down. I hear louder trickling as I walk along and investigate the opposite roadside. Water is pooling down and flowing under the road via a small drainpipe.
Walking back to the ravine side I see the water flowing quickly down. I venture pass the No Trespassing sign. Will the people in the house report me? I ignore my fears and disappear out of view of the two homes on the mountainside. I emerge onto the staked-out area of another future home site with a view about a hundred miles to mountains in the west, promising spectacular sunsets like those I’ve viewed previously from this spot.
The entire first mile of my trek was compromised by breathing a bit of that odorous smoke and I was coughing, choking and spitting with asthma. Labored continuous deep breathing and meditative walking has now given way to my clearer lungs. I breathe in deeply and marvel at the expanse before me and give thanks for it. No one can see me now behind this outcropping where walking to the left I discover four fading green vinyl chairs. Two lie face down. The other two have puddles in their seats after last night’s rain.
I pull one chair upright. The chair style was mom’s favorite…one that we brought for her comfort and use while she was in the nursing home until she passed. What a perfect find to simply sit and meditate. I hope no one interrupts me in my sanctum. What if someone did report a trespasser and I am found out? I’d say that I know the owner who bought the land and that he owns the sawmill next door. Certainly, he would not object to my being out here on this COVID-19 day when the world is quarantined, suffering, and no one else is about.
Who’s out here? Me… Yet, I’m thinking: everyone who knows me and sees me out walking calls me the “Bear,” because dressed as I am, all in black, short and stout-looking in my parka and big furry hood…I do look like a bear. Might some folly come to me by someone with a gun mistaking me for a bear? I am taking a chance. There is something delightful that no one knows where I am at this moment in time. I have no cell phone. Never carry it! I am alone.
Feeling the urge to move on, I look left down the hill that I’d seen from the road. I thought I eyed earlier a way to make passage to the brook below. The landowner clear-cut a way through what was knee-high brush. I trudge downward onto soaking-wet mowed-down brush and grass while trying to avoid any deep muddy spots and puddles beneath. I am in an area out of the sight of anyone. I am alone and must be watchful as I head to a forsaken ravine. I look about to watch for coyotes or fox, either of which could be rabid. Not a live thing in sight…not even a bird!
I hear the brook babbling, but I can’t quite gauge how far it is from me. The brush from the clearing to the brook is thick. Thinking. Should I try to get to it? I stand frozen surveying the surrounding area. I see what appears to be a trodden path to the water’s edge. I make my way to the path and try to navigate the thicket, but I come to realize that smaller mammals must have made this flattened path. The long Rosa rugosa stems with their clutching thorns upon my jacket and scarf warn me not to further on.
I retreat, relinquishing my quest to reach the brook in the steep ravine carved long ago by an ancient sea that retreated into what remains as the Connecticut river basin. As I meander back, I wonder about the oddly round mound I see amidst huge rock outcroppings. Could it be a bear’s den? Oh No! Moving on quickly, I see a flat area with hundreds of infant trees taking root…a place where I can walk safely in between the five-foot growths to the brook.
Looking right and left, and up and down as I go, I tread carefully! Who knows if some trapper left a bear trap around…or a coyote snare unbeknownst to an advancing mammal or me? Finally, here is the brook. The trickling sound is peaceful. The water is crystal clear. What a thrill! And to think that yesterday, I imagined that I would arrive at this spot someday. Wet decaying leaves thickly pad the forest’s floor. Emerging skunk cabbage bears its flowers. Bright green moss shrouds the bases of trees.
Walking back and forth along the brook’s length, I am careful not to slip in the dense, leaf-covered soft mud-bank and fall into the stream. I know it will be a frigid walk back for me if I do! I hold onto small pine trees to steady my steps as I look for a narrow width of the brook, hoping that I can jump across to the opposite side. I rummage the area for a sturdy branch to use as a cane to steady myself. I must go back and the shortest way to the road is up the steep hill to the mountain road. Looking down that treacherous hill yesterday, I did not think I would be able to walk down it to reach the stream, yet here I am by another route.
The climb is about a 30-degree angle up. My black leather, water-proof Grasshopper sneakers have no tread on their soles. Not good for climbing a slippery slope! I locate the narrowest width of the brook. I poke my pole into the mushy sides of the brook’s bed to test a firm place on either side from which to jump safely across and do. Luckily, I do not slip on the two-foot-high bank opposite. My feet are dry. I grab onto any standing tree within reach while pulling myself up the ravine’s fifty-foot high hillside. I make it safely to the road and slip just as I grab onto a concrete road marker.
What a thrill! Now I’m back on the road. I leave behind a place of “nowhere” where I have been. I feel the sense of danger that I eluded and the challenge I faced being alone “nowhere.” Would someone have found me down there at the ravine’s nadir had I succumbed? It’s the kind of place, few if any would venture, except God’s creatures. It holds the mysteries of time. It is Heaven or Hell, depending how I deem it.
Walking back home now, I think about my next adventure. Okay, I’ll take that dirt road to the farmed field behind my friend Kay’s home on Mt. Warner Road…the one where wild turkey foraged in the last few days. Perhaps, I’ll find a feather or two. The field is soggy, and the water is still running down throughout the field’s furrows into the stream at the hill’s bottom. My feet are still dry. Nothing to find. But wait, what is that I see? It’s half of a jawbone. About eight inches long and teeth along the edge. I move it with my shoe. The teeth have dried blood on them. What an unusual bone. I leave it, wondering what animal it belonged to and how it came to be in half. Perhaps when the plow went through the field? I walk back now, resigned that there are no feathers to be found, and I see a man with his dog coming towards me. We acknowledge each other’s existence, although I sensed that he, as I, would probably be happier to see no one anywhere.
Nina Scott
I was thinking how blessed we are to be living in a beautiful area where it is not hard to get outside and walk; that we are doing Zoom conferencing for a variety of activities that might not be possible otherwise: aerobics class; Learning in Retirement seminars (not all are suited to Zoom and had to be cancelled) - and we octogenarians are not “digital natives.”
My husband Jim meets early every Friday morning for a Men’s Group that has been meeting since the late 80s - about 12 - 14, usually. Now that they do it on Zoom long-time members who have moved away from this area can re-join and have done so.
Then there was my joy this morning at being able to get toilet paper! Also flour and yeast, so I can resume baking bread!
The other beings benefitting from humans being house-bound are our pets. Our Border Terrier Sophie is LOVING having us with her all the time, and available for much attention and many walks.
So, it’s a weird and stressful time on many fronts, but not all. Blessings lurk in places you might never have imagined.