|
|
She drives down, or up, North Road, which is County Road 69, and over bridges on the Flute Reed River, newer bridges, although they’ve been there 100 and more years, and the Flute Reed is no river, but a quiet creek hidden in the lush green of summer, under the moose maples and speckled alders and paper birch and wending this way and that around the boulders. If she goes up the Camp 20 Road there are two – or is it three – more crossings, culverts now, of the Flute Reed.
Back on North Road there is the site of the old mill and the old log cabin deep in the firs and spruce and poplars over the river. At one drive, across from the old farm, with a fire number on blue metal and a name carved on wood, and with two spaniels waiting, ambushing cars, she turns on a dirt drive, turns once, then again, first by stunted willows and dogwood and roses and tiny white pines caged against the deer, and then under tall firs and birch and aspen that make the shading canopy. Maybe she sees a rowboat on its side, then a camouflaged canoe upside down. There’s a sawbuck. One functional wheelbarrow, and one less so.
In the head of the clearing a planter with purple pansies. The compost bin out of which grows tomatoes, and alongside of which sunflowers six foot high. There are strawbales planted and covered with drooping zucchini with great elephant’s-ear leaves.
The clearing was cleared of the high canopy but is overgrown with smartweed and smooth brome and wild chamomile. A garden with beans (easy to grow) and peppers (giving it a go) and lettuces and turnips. And sunflowers.
The structure – to some a cabin, to others a shack – is green trim on brick red with mossy shingles. The exterior is decorated: old, old bamboo cane poles along the side, an old pair of boots, sentimental to someone, hang from outside the porch. The landscaping includes ferns and columbine and jackin the-pulpit and azaleas. Everywhere are buckets… Buckets to gather rainwater, buckets to carry things in, a bucket to bathe from.
The large screen porch is not functional in the intended way. It is storage.
Storage for dozens of fishing rods and reels and tackle boxes and boots. There’s a table, covered with strips of deer hide. And a chair, folded, in the corner. A kindling box. Propane tanks.
Not many people have been invited inside. One buddy who comes over to make sure we’re still alive. A couple of other relatives just to see what this life is like. One or two neighbors.
It’s just us alone.
After a day of working with nursery plants, I’m talking to myself in Latin. Listing off plant genuses. P yrus and Prunus and Picea ; Fragaria, Larix, Heliopsis.
Then, to myself, going through them alphabetically: Acer, Aesclepius, Andropogon, Aquilegia, etcetera.
There’s nothing to hide really. Just one’s life, and idiosyncrasies, and demons, and joys.
Not too much to hide, at least.
Leave a Reply