In the dark sky house curled towards the crow’s nest window I’m not asleep. It’s past mid-night and the room is thick with sweat, illuminated frames of cloud flash, thunder ambling off the wide valley into the bed like confused oxen. It’s an easy conversation for power to have with something littler. My husband has just gone off to his own dreaming. I lie alone.
These solitary summer days punctuated by one off social swirls of music or visiting - they drift, fall back towards long hot days leaning into gardens. In Vermont one never forgets the season is short. Almost oppressive by mid-summer all shades of green begin to merge and the distinctions between plants so pleasing in spring are gone. Sightings of Dionysus walk among us, begin to fatigue us, make us long for cool water.
I’m in the Ford truck driving with my mother, having steadied her up into the cab earlier with promises of a typical landscaper’s adventure. We’re idling in a construction zone miles from town to the point of turning off the engine. It’s a slim road aiming south just past Ward’s Garage and I’m glad to see he still waves to me even as he’s made enemies in town. As near as five years ago I would’ve been eager to share some of those rural politics with my mom, seeing as there’s little else to do sitting here stopped in our tracks. But today I’m silent and uninterested in my own stories, equally uncertain that my words would have any entertainment value, much less staying power.
“You don’t have to get out when we get there, if you don’t want to” I say. “After he loads the mulch, I just have to grab nine daylilies and a Japanese willow. But it is a fun place to look around if you’re up for it”.
“That’s fine, whatever you want to do is fine”, she says.
“I played music over there once,” I say, pointing vaguely towards the hills. “A trail-ride. It was fun. ” I don’t mention to my mother about the brain tumor our fiddler Tom developed after that gig or about the cider makers up the road whose son tattooed her own grandson’s arm with the symbol of Ceres, goddess of the harvest - using a ballpoint pen.
Finally the three cars that have been backed up behind the flagman for twenty minutes are allowed to move past and we continue south along the river, another twenty minutes to the nursery. I roll down the window as we turn up the steep drive because Chris is right there holding a clipboard and has spotted me; he’s wearing his signature lederhosen which is somehow so reassuring.
“Hey buddy, I got something for you.” I say, picking up the CDs, held with a rubber band and with the post-it note “CHRIS” on them, from off the bench seat of the Ford, where between me and my mother it seems like there’s a mile of empty space. “You got mulch today?”
He looks down at the package and he’s smiling to see a picture of me with a guitar - he had no idea. Somehow now I’m a little different from what I was last time I shopped for mulch. “What do I owe you for these? I can write you a check right away – I’ll meet you up there with the tractor in a minute”. He’s almost skipping up the drive towards the outbuilding that doubles as his office. I’m not sure if my mother is impressed.
But she’s definitely impressed as his tractor bucket hovers over the back of the truck she’s sitting in. The mulch is positively steaming, makes a mighty “whumph” as it hits the bed and jolts the suspension against the steady emergency brake. My hands are elbow deep in the hot material as I spread it to the sides and I can see her hands still gripping the door panel. It's her first time.
Later we carry plants to the truck, my four to her two, making several trips and throwing them in the back. I pay Chris and he pays me and she’s getting ready to tackle the climb in again but she’s got it pretty well figured out now so before long we’re easing the Ford down the nursery driveway nice and slow - she asks me what was the joke – she heard Chris laughing, saying something to me about his ex-wife.
“It’s her birthday. And it’s also Flag Day. We were just wondering what the appropriate flag might be”.
“Oh”, she says. “He’s a nice fellow - I hope the ride home will be a little faster”.
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These solitary summer days punctuated by one off social swirls of music or visiting - they drift, fall back towards long hot days leaning into gardens. In Vermont one never forgets the season is short. Almost oppressive by mid-summer all shades of green begin to merge and the distinctions between plants so pleasing in spring are gone. Sightings of Dionysus walk among us, begin to fatigue us, make us long for cool water.
I’m in the Ford truck driving with my mother, having steadied her up into the cab earlier with promises of a typical landscaper’s adventure. We’re idling in a construction zone miles from town to the point of turning off the engine. It’s a slim road aiming south just past Ward’s Garage and I’m glad to see he still waves to me even as he’s made enemies in town. As near as five years ago I would’ve been eager to share some of those rural politics with my mom, seeing as there’s little else to do sitting here stopped in our tracks. But today I’m silent and uninterested in my own stories, equally uncertain that my words would have any entertainment value, much less staying power.
“You don’t have to get out when we get there, if you don’t want to” I say. “After he loads the mulch, I just have to grab nine daylilies and a Japanese willow. But it is a fun place to look around if you’re up for it”.
“That’s fine, whatever you want to do is fine”, she says.
“I played music over there once,” I say, pointing vaguely towards the hills. “A trail-ride. It was fun. ” I don’t mention to my mother about the brain tumor our fiddler Tom developed after that gig or about the cider makers up the road whose son tattooed her own grandson’s arm with the symbol of Ceres, goddess of the harvest - using a ballpoint pen.
Finally the three cars that have been backed up behind the flagman for twenty minutes are allowed to move past and we continue south along the river, another twenty minutes to the nursery. I roll down the window as we turn up the steep drive because Chris is right there holding a clipboard and has spotted me; he’s wearing his signature lederhosen which is somehow so reassuring.
“Hey buddy, I got something for you.” I say, picking up the CDs, held with a rubber band and with the post-it note “CHRIS” on them, from off the bench seat of the Ford, where between me and my mother it seems like there’s a mile of empty space. “You got mulch today?”
He looks down at the package and he’s smiling to see a picture of me with a guitar - he had no idea. Somehow now I’m a little different from what I was last time I shopped for mulch. “What do I owe you for these? I can write you a check right away – I’ll meet you up there with the tractor in a minute”. He’s almost skipping up the drive towards the outbuilding that doubles as his office. I’m not sure if my mother is impressed.
But she’s definitely impressed as his tractor bucket hovers over the back of the truck she’s sitting in. The mulch is positively steaming, makes a mighty “whumph” as it hits the bed and jolts the suspension against the steady emergency brake. My hands are elbow deep in the hot material as I spread it to the sides and I can see her hands still gripping the door panel. It's her first time.
Later we carry plants to the truck, my four to her two, making several trips and throwing them in the back. I pay Chris and he pays me and she’s getting ready to tackle the climb in again but she’s got it pretty well figured out now so before long we’re easing the Ford down the nursery driveway nice and slow - she asks me what was the joke – she heard Chris laughing, saying something to me about his ex-wife.
“It’s her birthday. And it’s also Flag Day. We were just wondering what the appropriate flag might be”.
“Oh”, she says. “He’s a nice fellow - I hope the ride home will be a little faster”.