“My work brought me to the lake this week, to a parking lot, to a camp, to a causeway, and to a “No Trespassing” sign, like that’s some big surprise. Well, it’s not. Vermont is awash in boundaries and fences, and rules about what is permissible. You can guess which side of that great divide is my normal. I’m so glad they came up with a name for it, to shove into their over-stuffed, over-staffed, DSM. I would say that “Oppositional Defiant Disorder” is a very fancy name for healthy skepticism. But that’s just me. As they like to say these days: “You do you, I’ll do me”. Okay. So I was out doing me, the other day. The causeway was single lane, with lake on either side. But, drivable. Not much room for error, and definitely, no room to pass. Who made these things? Boy Scouts? Fishing clubs? Farmers with time on their hands? Surely not modern developers. The sketchiness was impressive. Where there wasn’t lapping lake water, there were flooded trees, and impenetrable tracts, of muck. Probably, if anyone fought here, they mostly died. I, for one, would not appreciate meeting a Mohican, in these parts, unannounced. You can’t always choose which tribe you belong to: the winners, or, the losers. And having made it to the other side of this annoying spit of property, I was rewarded with “Private property” signs, going right, going left. Contractors vehicles, in the middle. Dealing with some kind of old, historic foundation, being put back in order, for a rich client, I suppose. You can rely on me, to go home (the long way), and do my research. I found out who lived out there. There was a whole feature article, on their epically architected home, with sweeping views and specially landscaped grounds. Not to be rude, but I’m about at my limit of how many more talented, privileged, sequestered, people-I-almost-knew, who threw legendary dinner parties that turned into cook books, I can stand. It’s like an idyllic fairy tale that took place one town over from mine, while I was being burned alive, on a campfire. Can you feel me? I do, however, realize how unique it may have been, to rent an apartment in the old North Ferrisburgh dance hall, back in 1981, or so, which I did. It was about a mile distant from the Philo Records barn, which I went on to rent after that, after the recording studio folded. I seem to always arrive too late, to dinner parties I was not invited to. I could pontificate on this, as some point of distinction, but I won’t. The things I’ve seen and done, despite all my useless flailing and striving for attention, have allowed me to walk alone, among the cowslips. I’ve gone thru many pairs of rubber boots, just to get where I am. I think there are a few of you out there, who took the same, sorry cowpath. It’s time for us now, to stand tall.”
