“We saw the soft-serve symbology: a Cremee graphic hanging next to a car repair shop and pulled in, hot and excited. It had been a brutal day, working in the sun. The majestic Lake Champlain still shimmered in our recent memory, as we had driven out along the shore, air conditioning blasting in the truck. Our client had tipped us, $25 a piece, and it felt like Christmas. Cash jingling in our pockets, and the solace of sodas, and milkshakes clearly ahead, our good fortune seemed unreal. This is the reality of labor jobs. I left her at the counter, as she ordered up a black raspberry and maple, concoction, mostly ice cream. I had my Maine Root (c), root beer in hand, and headed back to the vehicle. We’d hit pay dirt, in back water country, although it might be noted that the lake townships astride Burlington tend towards the effete. But somehow, small operations, & package stores, still manage to persist, to serve the locals. We drove south from there, grateful to be alive and employed. It shifts one’s perspective, to do digging work, in other people’s gardens. Like a whole new lexicon, and education, if you’re willing to go below it, and work your way up, into it. A beautifully mature Quince bush, a gnarly, overgrown juniper, stately Magnolia, and all the perennials vying for attention surrounding and crowding in, like phlox, and pulsatilla, and bulbs. The day before, we’d been deeply entrenched, honoring the ongoing reconstruction of old plantings and dreams. Gardens are a process, and never arrive, but for brief moments of epiphany. This must, and will always, mirror life. Why else would anyone strive amongst the weeds? Beauty is an odd pursuit, and yet vital to the human spirit. Heading home, we slowed to gawk at mansions, as well as double wides, each heralding their own level of equanimity. The over-arching, gallant impulse of nature, to display and proclaim, never more evident, than in the month of May. I would say that we are only here to witness and high five some rudimentary, innate directive of nature, to uphold and defend it. Anyway, we relaxed as the road dove down towards a covered bridge, bringing us to a triad of horse farms, new to the area, where once an old man had run his sawmill. I have talked about him before, and there is a road named after his family, but he is long gone. I pointed out his ramshackle home, still standing, not for the first time, to my compatriot. “We visited with him there, in his parlor”, I offered, “before he died. We rode together in the Bristol 4th of July Parade, in his Model T”. My words felt hollow, but a distant memory. “I’ll show you the photos”, I said, but in this world of easy imagery, it seemed a meaningless trope. We drove on, then spontaneously pulled over, and climbed the nearby ridge, a newly created nature conservancy, he undoubtedly knew, like the back of his hand.”
