5:14 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 39 bracing degrees (mosquitoes quarantined by cold, stiff inside tiny hangars), wind S 2 mph. Sky: delicate rose and blue, a few clouds wispy; landscape Houdini, ground fog above the East Branch of the Ompompanoosuc River transforms hills into islands, the mundane into the magnificent, a glimpse of primal America (or, at least, my vision of primal America . . . a green, unmodern world, clean air, clean water and an absence of combustion engines); beyond my sightline, loon corroborates, wild notes spilling out of the pastel sky. Permanent streams: barely audible, levels dropping by the day. Wetlands: greening reeds across the marsh; dewy spiderwebs on sweetgale isles, white tufts on dark brown, ephemeral decor. A colorful hot air balloon floats over the marsh, in and out of view. Pond: a cauldron of unrepressed mist; in sparsely leafed ash, chestnut-sided warbler sings his heart out; I stand awed, dogs sit puzzled.
DOR: southern flying squirrel, seriously pancaked
AOR: robins; three turkeys, a gobbler and his harem out for a stroll
Lilacs, purple and white, along barn driveway, rich, redolent flowers, a transformative aroma that once lured me into a remote Arizona dooryard, where I buried my face in the sweet smell of ol' New England. Aspen seeds, cream-colored dust motes, and white pine pollen, talcy and golden, adrift or settle as pond scum. Japanese honeysuckle and pin cherry in bloom.
From a wooded ledge, the song of a hermit thrush rolls out of the shadows, in concert with pair of dueling veeries, one of which flies over the road, warm chestnut-red calls, a loud, nasal, piercing . . . veer. And then another. Two honks like an impatient motorist. Warbler roster: black and white; black-throated green; chestnut-sided (my new favorite); Nashville; black-throated blue; blackburnian; ovenbird, the most numerous, the most emphatic, the most persistent, at the moment in close competition with red-eyed vireos for control of the airwaves.
After twenty-four years, I have forgotten how difficult it is to move. I'm older, books heavier. Apparently, I never threw anything away. After forty years of disuse, I still have my mother's cups and saucers. I still have outdated college textbooks. Long Island high school yearbooks, my hair a somewhat unnatural lemon yellow. And an Upper Westside of Manhattan baby album featuring scallop-edge black and white photographs; one of Mrs. Anderson, a severe-looking Swedish nursemaid, in a sterile white dress, hair tucked in a bun under a white pillbox hat, feeding me a bottle. Who would have ever guessed that the unhappy infant in the picture stands at the edge of a dirt road in rural Vermont, seventy-two years later, happily picking morels and listening to chestnut-sided warblers? I'm so readily distracted from packing.
Ted,
I was a biology major and taught it at Marion High School for five years—but it was all fundamental stuff and a long time ago—so I really enjoy your up-to-date, refreshing observations and in-depth knowledge the natural world.
As per your last letter, my Grandparents came from Sweden and Grandmother had a younger sister, Clara Andersson, who did some Nannying in NY City, but then she moved to Bridgeport and started a candy shop. It would be a long shot coincidence if it were
her, Andersson is a very common name. Grandfather’s name was Johansson, son of Johan, but in the USA He took Miller as the family surname—he was a paper Miller and took a job in Muncie, Indiana.
Keep up the great work!!
Stew
I just had to look it up: "The Ompompanoosuc River rises in the town of Vershire and flows generally southward where it joins the Connecticut River in the town of Norwich. The Abenaki word for the river means “at the place of mushy quaky land.”
https://vtdigger.org/2015/06/02/david-deen-river-names-that-tickle-the-tongue/
And that name tickles the tongue for sure, although I had to chuckle when I looked up how to pronounce it and found three different examples!
Ah--moving. I'm happy you allow the morels and warblers to distract you, since time is precious. I kept Thoreau in mind when leaving my home of 37 years: "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity." Glad you're taking your time--each time I've moved, I touched each book or piece of art or furniture and just sort of knew what needed to go to family and friends and what could be donated or recycled. Not everything must be kept, but all should be honored, imho. I wish you well in the coming journey, with good memories behind and new ones waiting.