Failures in Communication in Vermont

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 10.22.40 AMLiving and working in the rolling mountains of Vermont is a bucolic pleasure. Especially this time of year when the foliage is approaching full autumnal splendor. But the hills and hollows wreak a special havoc on cell phone communication. I work as a Literacy Coach in six schools, in a district that covers a cool 460 square miles. As I am rarely at my home desk, email or my cell phone are the best way to reach me…well, sort of.  Yesterday, a reading specialist from a school not so far away as a crow flies, but a meandering journey over hill and dale by car, asked to connect via phone. In the room at the school where I was scheduled and have a “visiting” office, I have sometimes received messages on my phone, so I thought I was set. The time my colleague said she would call passed. Then a message popped up. I tried to return the call. It dropped. She called back as I was walking through the hall to find better reception. Awkward, as the staff meeting had just focused on cell phone use…for students, but still, we need to model the good behavior we expect. I had to ask the secretary for a district phone book, a lovely lady who was busier than usual as it was picture day and she was flying solo. I remade the call from the staffroom landline and it went to voicemail. I emailed to see if we might try a Google Hangout-but my colleague’s little school has a cranky internet connection. It was in a mood already today.

Holy Smokes!  I am thinking smoke signals, carved stone tablets floated across rivers (Remember the comic BC?), the pony express….even good old snail mail might be more efficient.

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I do remember when I moved here from the West Coast, I felt like I had moved to Mayberry (as in the fictitious TV town set in a time when things were kinder, simpler, quieter, and slower). Experiences like this reaffirm that I have.  And it is ok with me.

“A Tick of the Year Clock”

This morning I began my day reading Jane Yolen’s poem Moving Through the Farmers’ Fair ©.  A lovely line from her first stanza spoke to me, so I borrowed it for my title. As I was reading, writing, and waiting for my coffee to brew, Mark Breen, our VPR weatherman, declared today would inch into heat more fitting for early August than September. The morning yet in foggy chill, my fresh cuppa finally in hand, I filled with dread.

I am done with heat. I am done with days where humidity and the added warmth of school-packed bodies make me drip in my professional clothes. Early September is always hot, yet every year it catches me by surprise.

Septembers baked in Oregon, where long-sleeved school clothes and Buster Browns, so new and tempting, comfortable on the leafy walk to Meriwether Lewis Elementary, became sweatboxes by afternoon, quickly discarded…abandoned until October.

Septembers sweltered in Texas, in the wrong-side-of-the-tracks school of my early teaching days. 100 plus degrees and nearly 100 percent humidity. No air-conditioning. The first school days started and ended thirty minutes early to beat the worst of the heat. A psychological token really. My west-coast conditioned body wilted well before noon, when I passed out ice-cubes to listless children, the clock ticking so slowly toward dismissal.

Even in New England, the home of quintessential fall: strings of crisp, colorful days, rarely marred by rain; late summer flexes its muscle, the aging prizefighter against up-comer fall.

What I have heard some Vermonter’s call “Judas trees” betray the calendar. “An early Fall!” these flamboyant trees exclaim, red outliers amidst their neighbor’s still summer green. I have learned not to listen. Humid afternoons do begin to relax into cooler nights and pleasanter sleep. But misty mornings birth false hope as temperatures inexorably chug once more into sweaty discomfort.Screen Shot 2015-09-05 at 8.42.53 PM

Somehow I forget this each year: Summer’s tenacity. I forget how it holds on so fiercely, ticking out its final minutes, just before the alarm, and we wake into fall.

Change is hard. It is not easy to let go. Not for seasons. Not for us. Recent headlines in the news, photographs that rip hearts in two, confirm this. We cling to outdated social definitions, to laws and practices that no longer make sense, to what feels comfortable, even when the climate of our lives, our world has changed. We have such a hard time opening to new ideas, new ways of seeing, to new seasons in our lives. We find ways to ignore the what we choose not to see, but no matter how hard we hold on, time ticks on.

In late July I adopted a frightened small mule from a rescue. Given time, consistency and attention, Gus has been making great progress in trust. He will now stand and let me brush him, something he was too terrified to tolerate at first. The rescue I IMG_0579adopted him from asked me to share some pictures. I sent some, along with some bits of video. After they posted a clip on their site, a commenter said, “It takes a grandmothery type.” After my initial shock from the fact the comment was in reference to me (though likely meant in the kindest sense) I realized, no matter how I feel on the inside, my life has shifted seasons. I am now entering the fall season of my life.  Perhaps, If I embrace my inner grandmother, I can savor and be fully present in this part of my journey, before my winter comes.

This week the stunted apple tree Herb and I rescued from overgrowth has begun IMG_0605giving up apples. The corgis are slow to respond our calls as they snarfle the bank for prized windfalls. They finally trot in, a jaunty parade of four, green apples jawed like tennis balls, then head to their beds to enjoy their treat. I will soon climb the stairs to my own bed this warmish night, I will drape my favorite fall sweater over the chair. Ready. Ready for the tick of the clock year. Ready for change.

To Build a Barn

Build a barn you say?

First you need a field.

The deer know the best ones

where sweet grass grows

and the sun warms gentle slopes.

Where leafy trees offer afternoon shade

and moonlight coaxes fireflies

to weave their trails of light.

You need the dream of a barn

scrawled from your armchair

on the back of an old envelope

while the snow falls deep.

Your steps last August

measured out width and breadth

across the flat ground tucked into maples

the neighbor taps for syrup

come spring.

You need the tower of pines

straight and true,

strengthened by seasons of growth.

Lumber for posts and beams and planks and frame.

Felled by the logger.

Shaped by the sawyer.

Righted by the builder.

A tree’s trade.

Life in the woods,

for a new one in the field-just down the road.

As a barn to stand the test of time.

You need the hands of neighbors

who bring their tools, their time,

their knowledge of how things fit-and how things work.

Knowledge from a lifetime of learning, not from ivy covered halls.

Knowledge that needs no signatured-paper to mark its worth.

Many hands, many shoulders, and much sweat

build a barn.

There are those who stop in the road.

“Whatcha building?” they say. “Oh, a barn?”

They reach into their memories of barns,

of sweet-scented hay,

earthy manure,

and well-oiled leather.

They talk of July hayfields

the contented ache of young muscles,

the drip of sweat,

the prickle of the last bale tossed high

into a loft stacked to the rafters.

They remember laughter

and stories told

as the day gave up its heat,

and dust motes floated lazily in barn-filtered light.
Building a barn, you say?

When the last board is set,

the last nail hammered home,

you need the breath of a mare,

the swish of a tail,

the slow munch of hay.

You need a nicker in the morning when the doors are swung wide,

as the mare ambles into the dew-kissed field

where twin fawns yet sleep

near the barn.

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This Enormous Blue Morning A Borrowed Line Poem

At the Boothbay Literacy Retreat I was introduced to a new (to me) technique for writers called a borrowed line poem. You read the poem of another author to find a line that especially resonates for you. That line then becomes the foundation of a poem of your own. In the new context the line may take on an entirely new meaning from the poem of its origin. It’s a wonderful writing exercise.

From Mary Oliver’s poem, Notebook, I borrowed this line: “the enormous blue morning”.

It inspired this reflection on summer mornings of my early childhood. We lived in a house on a hill with concrete stairs tucked between tire paths up the steep drive.

The Enormous Blue Morning

By Julie Burchstead (with a nod to Mary Oliver).

The enormous blue morning opened wide

as the slap of my sandals

counted the cement steps

down the drive.

Slap! slap! Like staccato code

to my sleeping friends,

“Wake up! Come Out!”

Enormously blue,

a bit dewy around its grassy edges yet,

the sun’s warmth still a promise only

this day so new, so enormous.

I sit on the bottom step

feeling grit through my thin cotton shorts

hugging my goosebumped legs


Waiting on the bottom step

for the clap of screen doors

as sleepy children come tumbling out

of morning houses.

“Hey! Shake off those cobweb dreams.

Come out, come out!”

This day,

this blue enormous day

It’s ours,

but it won’t keep.

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On Presence, Vermont Winters, and Mentor Writers

Winter this year seems to be arriving all at once. This Groundhog Day of snow on snow on snow gave me time to dig into my writer’s notebook and savor some snippets from Take Joy, Jane Yolen’s insightful and incisive book on the craft of writing.

Jane Yolen, a writer whose work I have loved ever since first reading Owl Moon, writes a poem each and every day as part of her routine as a writer. If you connect with her via email, she will send them to you. My first one arrived yesterday. It was amazing: artful, smart, creative, magical. A clarion call to inspire the writer’s muse, couched in a gathering of fairies. It contained delicious words like “freshet”, and this line, “Not a BANG, but a slow greening.” (c) Jane Yolen.  You could take this line literally, that is how spring arrives in Vermont. But I also interpreted it to refer to the creative process as well.

Her email noted she welcomed comments. So amongst a few other small comments I sent this:

Dear Jane,

This time of year I miss western Oregon where green is a year round garment, and as we speak the hellebores are waking.

She wrote back.

“But if it is green all year, how do you wake from the winter sleep into productivity?”

I have to say, at this point I was nearly falling out of my chair to think I had just had an email conversation with “THE Jane Yolen.” After I recovered from my starstruck delirium, I thought about her words. I thought about my One Little Word: Presence. I thought about a conversation I had just had with my husband Herb. He had just read aloud to me a thoughtful piece from Brain Pickings Weekly this issue being a collage of excerpts from Annie Lamott and poets Strand and Oliver (among others) on the subject of presence and awareness. We discussed on how “our” incessant focus on the future robs of us of living in the present.

Funny, how the same message can wash over you in waves-even to the point of knocking you off your feet. I realized, longing for the spring awakenings in Oregon, in a way prevented me from being fully present in the gift of Vermont winter. How often have I lived my life this way, blind to what is going on right in front of me because I am busy thinking about a future..that may never materialize in the way I hope or imagine.

Today in my inbox was another poem from Jane with a winter theme. Inspired, I gleaned from my notebook some snippets I have been collecting and here is my own poem: a celebration of winter in Vermont

Winter Dreams By Julie Burchstead

Winter panes spill light like butter, golden pools on the snow
Inviting travelers home again with their warming glow.

Winter chimneys puff out smoke, like twisted cotton threads.
Weaving gossamer tapestry in the sky over our heads.

Winter people seek good books, steaming mugs and cozy lairs,
They pull on fuzzy sweaters, curl into comfy chairs.

Winter days sleep late, are stingy with their light.
They retire early, give way too soon to night.

Winter dogs are lazy, they snore and grow fat.
They twitch and dream of chasing squirrels, a ball, perhaps a cat.

Winter dreams stretch long-into dark that’s rich and deep,
Wrapped up in PJs, downy quilts, flannel sheets, soothing sleep.

Winter villages settle in and wrap themselves up tight,
In soft white afghans knit from snowflakes, then they say Good Night.

If you are a writer, and have not read Take Joy: A Writer’s Guide to Loving the Craft, (Yolen, 2006) I highly recommend heading to your local independent bookstore and adding it to your personal library as soon as you can.  You will be better for it.

Two of my favorite independent bookstores (I have personally wandered the aisles of both)

Northshire Bookstore, Manchester, Vermont

Powell’s City of Books, Portland, Oregon

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Thanks to TwoWritingTeachers Blog for the opportunity to participate in Tuesday Slice of Life

Unexpected Snowfall

For a snow lover like me, it has been the winter of discontent. I grew up in western Oregon, where snow is rare and fleeting. In Oregon, winter is a 9 month mud-season, a long yawn of wet and grey. I delighted in moving to the land of snow. I bought mittens and snowshoes. I learned about roof rakes and ergonomic snow shovels. For my first five winters here, Vermont has delivered: Currier and Ives  Christmasses and a steady succession of light fluffy snowfalls through March, and sometimes beyond. Transformative magic to keep the winter drearies away. But not this winter.

Oh it’s been cold enough. Cold enough to flash-freeze coffee left in my cup after my morning commute. Cold enough to freeze and refreeze the line to our dishwasher for days at a time. Cold enough-until moisture arrives. Then weeks of unrelenting deep-freeze break just in time to ensure the precipitation falls as rain, or worse, ice.

This winter it’s like we planned the party, sent out invitations, set the table, even received confirmation of attendance, but snow has been like an unreliable guest, arriving late, leaving early, coming ill-dressed, or been a complete no-show. Lingering roadside drifts are as tired and unappealing as picked-over hors d’oeuvres left on the tray after guests have gone home.

Each morning, I scan the ten day forecast on my screen for the freshly added date.  Will it have a snowflake?  But amongst the occasional icons of clouds, rarely a snowflake appears. When one does it only teases,  revealing on arrival to be rain dressed in snow’s clothing.

Vermont weather is fickle. The turn and rise of a road, the breadth of a mountain, the proximity to a river, each and every hollow creates its own unique climate. To snow, or not to snow? My morning commute winds through several of these micro-climates. One village, one hill and valley to the next varies in snowfall by extraordinary degrees. My hollow has been the the itch that can’t get scratched. The snow falls south, or north, a bit east or west. The little we’ve had has snuck in by night, been washed by rain by day, or coated with ice.

A couple of days ago, another Judas snowflake appeared on my desktop. It showed early promise, but by last night, there were conflicting reports, diminishing chances. “An All-Day Event” the newscaster predicted….to the south. Fickle. I went to bed resigned.

This morning, I awoke to a snowy world. Fat, steady, luxurious flakes. The trees and roads are blanketed as far as the eye can see. Almost February, our first true snowfall of the season. Scarcity teaches you to savor things in a way you don’t when they are common. So I breathe in this snowfall: the hush, the graceful lines it forms on the branches, the way it has covered the gritty remains of this unreliable winter with a pristine blanket.

An unexpected gift.                                                                                        Screen Shot 2015-01-24 at 10.36.21 AM

Presence: My One Little Word for 2015

In the extraordinary turn my professional life has taken me this year, I have come across the writing blogs of some extraordinary people. They have been sources of inspiration to me. I am astounded at how these gifted people can find time to live so fully in their careers, their families, and still find time to write, reflect, and inspire others. One Little Word is a reflection technique they inspired me to try. I am grateful to Ruth Ann Ayers and the contributors of Two Writing Teachers blog for this idea, and so many others.  If you are not aware of their blogs, I invite you to take a look.

One Little Word works like this: Instead of making a standard list of New Year’s resolutions, choose one word to use as a lens as you live out your new year. So here, on the eve of returning back to work after two weeks of vacation, the world outside my window a frozen landscape of snow and ice, I choose my own One Little Word for 2015: Presence.

This year, no matter where I am, what I am doing, or who I am with, I seek to be fully present in the moment, the place, or with the person I am with. The world is so full of distractions, change, and things that spin outside my control. But I can control the quality of my presence, especially in the midst of stress, and make the moments I inhabit richer and better for myself and those I am with.

Presence in my Workplace:

2014 was a year of extraordinary change for me. The environment of the position I had taken after first moving to Vermont had drastically evolved over a five-year revolving-door-of-leadership. Each revolution became more personally toxic: outside the parameters of what I believe and value, professionally and personally. I began to lose my footing. I did not like the person I was becoming.  But January of 2014 brought an amazing transformation. A year ago, I began my current position (a job I have reached and aspired to my entire career). I found work with like-minded, passionate, visionary, professional people. In 12 months my experience changed from one of micro-management to trust, marginalization to collaboration, from survival mode to growth and reflection. Instead of watching years of careful work get tossed aside, I am now an agent of change in an environment where there is long-term support for practices I know make a difference.

Being a change agent, with adults in all phases of their careers, requires me to be mindful of my presence.  In usually brief windows of time,  I need to get to know my colleagues, to discover their strengths, their goals, and co-create with each a unique pathway to lift their practice. Presence demands my focus as a listener with an open heart and mind. My the pathway to trust.

Presence in my Home:

Five and a half years of living nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont with its vibrant seasons and unique quality of life, has been a treat for the senses. But with my own retirement in sight, my already-retired husband and I, face the realization Vermont is a very expensive place to live. Coupled with distance from family and accessible coastline, and Herb’s developing condition that makes enduring long cold winters increasingly brutal..we anticipate returning west within five years. What does this have to do with presence?

Knowing my Vermont time is fleeting, being present in these remaining years is critical. I want to always remember the sparkle of snow crystals in temperature of spare degrees, the vibrancy of fire-colored leaves against intensely blue skies framed by white clapboard church steeples, the tantalizing hint of green that dresses mountains each long-awaited spring. I want to breathe Vermont in deep. Presence.

Presence in the My Life:

This year, I want to be aware of my presence in my life. Technology, though a critical part of my work, and long-distance connection to mentors and friends…can also be such an addictive time waster that pulls my presence into cyberlands of someone else’s purpose and intent. This year, I want to be more judicial and watchful of the time I spend online. I want to be present fully in my life and with those I love, creating meaning, and noticing beauty.

Note to self: Presence: To be unwrapped each and every day.

Photo credit: Flickr Commons/Tina M89

Mirror Mirror

In my bedroom, in an ancient farmhouse in eastern, central Vermont, I gaze into the beveled-glass mirror of an Eastlake dresser.  The slightly wavy reflection reveals the wrinkles and greying hair of a woman just over fifty. I think of the many times I have stood, just like this, in front of this beautiful, simply carved, handmade furniture. This mirror has reflected back all of my journeys for most of my life: moves to college, many apartments, across states and back, marriages, births, joy and sorrow, and finally this chapter in Vermont. This dresser was the first piece of furniture I ever owned, my first antique in a life-time of loving old things. But this dresser has a story is even richer than than mine, beginning long before it first reflected my pig-tailed, nine year old face for the first time.

When I was about nine,  a blue, three-speed bicycle from Sears, gave me freedom to pedal independently through the streets of my southeast Portland neighborhood to the Woodstock library. If I had a quarter, I could stop at Carl’s Texaco on the way, the one where my dad had worked as a teenager (for we then lived in the house where he had grown up), and get a stubby green-glass bottled coke from the machine. Some days, after the library, instead of going back home to 38th street,  I would keep going, my books clamped onto the rack above my rear tire. I would ride beyond Otto’s Delicattessen and McCreights Hardware, to 53rd off Woodstock, to a little dead-end street where my Grandmother occupied the downstairs of a rambling old house, renting-out the upstairs apartment to tenants.

I loved my grandmother’s house. It was like no other place in the world. Time stopped still inside her antique-filled, drape darkened rooms where dust motes lazily danced in the filtered light. Long dead relatives peered sternly from sepia toned-portraits on every wall. Soft, slightly-stale cookies always awaited in the chipped blue crock on the kitchen counter. Handmade lace, time-seasoned wood, ornate frames, high beds with carved headboards and matching dresser sets, partnered with hand-hooked flowered rugs to greet chilly feet in the morning, Grandma’s house was so different from the sibling-created chaos of my own. And always in the background was the sound of my grandmother humming in the kitchen or garden.

I was a snoopy child. Curious. Grandma’s closets and drawers and old albums never disappointed. They were treasure troves of things from another time, another place. My Grandmother, Olive Irene Brown Jost was an Easterner. Not just that, but a Canadian, whose Great Grandparents, still loyal to the British Monarch, had fled the fledgling independence of the young United States, north, to the tiny Quebec village of Ayer’s Cliff on the shores of Lake Massawippi. On the hills above, they established farms along a road still called Brown’s Hill, their names are now etched in marble on the stones in the tiny cemetery behind a creaky iron gate; Joshua, Lestina, Frederick, Caroline. I had grown up on stories of birch trees, and homemade maple syrup, sleigh rides, the work of feeding a noon table-full of hungry farm help, and snow deep enough to cover windows, things exotic and alien to my urban Oregon childhood.

One particular afternoon, while refreshing after my bike-ride, with milk and cookies in the kitchen, Grandma mentioned her tenants had recently moved out. The upstairs was empty! The apartment! A new territory  to explore! “Grandma, could I go and see the upstairs?” Permission granted, I set off up the usually prohibited staircase off the dark and chilly hallway to the rooms above. There was something exciting about seeing these rooms, furnished as they were with odd cast-offs, most many times coated with various layers of paint. The rooms beckoned of independence, of becoming a grown-up..playing house for real. I fantasized about living there, wandering through thScreen Shot 2014-09-02 at 7.09.08 AMe kitchen, the living room…into the bedroom…and there I saw it, the most beautiful dresser I had ever seen. It had three drawers with ornate brass pulls and a tall carved mirror atop. I couldn’t wait to ask grandma about it. She explained it had been in her family for as long as she could remember. It had come west from Canada after her parents, who by then had settled on the shores of Lake Massawippi, had both passed away. Then to my astonishment, she said, when I was twelve, it could be mine!

Three years later, it arrived into my upstairs bedroom now on NE Couch street, and was settled onto the baby blue carpet, surrounded by freshly painted purple walls adorned with horse posters. Over time my reflected pigtails gave way to a Dorothy Hamill wedge, pictures of horses were replaced by Argus posters with pithy quotes and photographs. Everyday since, the mirror has reflected my life. With our move to Vermont, this old dresser has come full circle almost, arriving within a few hundred miles of where its story began, where the timbers from which it was crafted, began as trees, weathering New England seasons. In these past few years I have driven a sleigh, eaten maple syrup homemade by a friend, passed several cycles of New England seasons including a winter with snow nearly up to the windows.

When I gaze into the mirror, I sometimes wish I could see the ghosts of reflections past, my grandmother’s steady brown eyes.  More than just a piece of furniture, this old dresser contains my past that connects me with my future. Full circle.

Note: This week, September 4th, celebrates the 114th anniversary of Olive Irene Brown Jost’s birth.


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Shopping Retail

Retail shopping is a little like ingesting large amounts of sugar. Meandering aisles stocked floor to ceiling with shiny new somethings of every color and purpose, all screaming “You need me! You want me! Take me home!” does something strange to the brains of persons who have been away from such experiences for so long, defenses have become a bit shaky, and you find yourself with the mad urge to throw a tantrum like the unseen toddler in the aisle just over. Yes, my cart overfloweth, but I want that too!

But here, in my neck of the Vermont woods, such shopping experiences are difficult to come by. Vermont is very beautiful. It’s villages tout main streets from Norman Rockwell posters. I shop local as much as I can. As our town  is larger than some, it sports a lovely local artist’s collective, a Rite Aid, an Ace Hardware store, a car dealership, a Shaw’s grocery store, and the ubiquitous Dollar Store (where one can find unnecessary plastic items of every purpose known to mankind)…but there are times, (and the beginnings of school years are such), that only a big, warehouse style, multi-department, retail establishment, aproned by acres of neat, white-painted stalls for parking your car, will do. For my Oregonian friends, I was in need of a Fred Meyer’s. The closest thing here is Target. The nearest Target is an hour across the Connecticut River. So with a rainy day in the forecast, Herb and I clambored into the CMax, and headed to Keene, a New Hampshire city, offering the closest experience in true retail saturation one can find in SE Vermont.

The scenic highway along the river gave way to two lane roads. Stop lights and arrowed direction signs, then (gasp)..MERGING lanes appeared. Finally, one trip around a roundabout and a few false turns later, it loomed before us, the iconic Target red dot!  After only circling the lot a few times, we selected our very own place to park. A short walk later, the big metal and glass doors yawned open to welcome us in. And just inside…. to my fancy-coffee-deprived-soul’s delight, was a Starbucks! With a caramel macchiato and my shopping list in hand, we wandered up each and every aisle in Target. Found the elusive cloth shower curtain we needed, but not the percale sheets. Found the on-sale markers, but not the hanger thingie that attaches to the metal braces of classroom dropped ceilings. We laughed out loud at silly office supplies and pondered the need for kitchen gadgetry of all sorts, settling on a splatter screen and a lidded-reheatable mug perfect for taking leftovers to school for lunch. One Target, one Michael’s, a Home Depot, and J&J’s Discount (for that impossible to find classroom plant hanger)…oh and the New Hampshire Liquor Commission…(they have the most West Coast wines)…we found my list exhausted, our brains on traffic and plastic object overload…and the CMax so bursting to the gills it had a momentary eco-challenged burp, and was not able to show us even a single growing leaf on its screen.

Late in the afternoon, we stopped at Five Guys for lunch (Great burgers, but next time we will share a small fry…the large is…well gargantuan). As we steered the car towards home another round of gentle rain began to fall. The wipers slapped a comforting rhythm that soothed our weary souls. What-a-day. There is a satisfaction like no other that comes with being in possession of a shopping list that is almost completely crossed off. But I have to say, after all the noise and color and people and traffic…those misty green mountains welcoming us at the end of the long bridge back into Vermont were very easy on our eyes.

Painting Shutters

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 10.22.40 AMMy husband and I are painting the exterior of our house in Vermont. It’s not a hard job, just tedious and slow. In the scope of things, painting isn’t a half-bad way to spend a late summer day, outdoors, with someone you love. And its a job that provides an immediate reward.

Herb is mostly doing the sides where long narrow planks run from trim board to trim board. I am painting the shutters. We will hire some younger person, with better balance, and less fear of falling, for the high gables on the steeply angled roof.

Our house is old. Its bones were first nailed in place in 1760. It has seen many additions along the way. Like these shutters. They do not appear in a picture we have from the turn of the century, when what is now our kitchen was still an attached barn, when the black iron crane inside the dining room fireplace had a purpose more than decorative. But they have been part of the house long enough to have experienced three changes in color.

First I have to scrape. I balance each shutter on the top of two red buckets and kneel in the grass, working with my tool to loosen flakes where the paint and the wood are parting company. In the process, the work of painters who have come before is revealed. Bare wood was followed by blue, covered over with green, then light gray, which we are painting over with black. When all is smooth, I can addshutters the first layer of new paint, that begins to transform what was, into new. It is mindless sort of work. It leaves me with time to wander in my thoughts.

I am thinking how this work, scraping and repainting shutters, is like revision in my writing. Rereading comes first, for an overall impression of how it’s weathering. I read to see what holds, and where intent and word choice are parting company. I scrape some parts completely away, discarding words like paint flakes that no longer fit. I carefully compose and repair, adding fresh color where it is needed. Where my writing once was rough, it now reads smooth, And when the revised section is restored where it belongs, just like newly painted shutters, it makes the whole construction better, beautiful, as if it was always meant to be that way.