Pete’s Gone

January in Vermont is a challenging month; the holidays are over. Gone are the colorful lights, businesses covered in red bows and greenery, and egg nog. What comes now are the long days of winter. We are just past a few days of lovely snow chased by a day of solid rain. The oil and vinegar of winter- warming trend shaken up by a quick cold spell leaving lumpy iced walkways and roads. Water comes roaring out of a spring on the mountain and, because of the frozen ground, has nowhere to go so coats the dirt road in front of our house like a skating rink. Treacherous walking abounds. Morning and night when we check animals, we pull on boots and proceed to hobble/skate our way down to the barns. Sometimes I find myself moving too fast and simply slide on past the door hoping that I will run into a snowbank as a stop. We sprinkle sand, like chicken feed, over the paths to the house. Easier to walk but the other side is that the three dogs now bring in sand every time they enter. It feels like I have either a bag of sand or a mop in my hand most of the time.

The days begin to lengthen but it is still dark by 4pm. We build fires in both wood stove and fireplace, grateful for the heat that surrounds us like a wool blanket when we come into the house. Too early to think garden thoughts so, left without the excitement of December, we turn inward. It feels like something is different in our neighborhood and I find out that something has, indeed, changed; Pete is gone.

Pete and Donna have lived up the dirt road from us for almost twenty years. They watched our kids ride bikes until they began to drive cars too fast by their house. They saw Sam, now fourteen, when he was young, strong and our only dog. Helped us build barns and move sheep and chickens into the neighborhood. They were fixtures at our outdoor fire pits and yearly Christmas parties, the past two years with Donna arriving on a walker. We saw their divorced daughter move in with her young children and dog, Cooper. We saw soccer nets set up on their grass and the kids walking up the hill from the bus stop. Cooper and Sam argued but Bronte, our female border collie, always arrived in time to mediate. Donna’s daughter and kids eventually moved into a house of their own but by then Cooper had become attached to Pete and Donna so he stayed.

All days, all weather, like the post office of old, we saw Pete and Cooper trudging down the road. Sometimes we would be driving home in the dark and see a small dot of light with a dog under it. Pete would be taking his evening constitution and wanted to be sure we would see Cooper. If you didn’t slow down appropriately he would began waving the light back and forth and motioning for you to take it down a notch.

Early spring would find Pete walking in gray sweatpants and a light jacket. Sometimes he’d stop on his way past our driveway and talk about black flies. He’d swat a few, real or not, for reference. Cooper and Sam would growl “hello” and off they would walk. Mid summer he’d come by in a baseball cap, tan golf shorts, white socks and sneakers. Come fall he would graduate to the orange knit hat pulled down over his ears and eyebrows, carrying a tall wooden walking stick to help propel him forward. Cooper would trot past in his new bright orange vest, eyes averted lest my dogs laugh. Snowfall meant the orange knit cap (once it was on, it didn’t leave), sometimes a fleece neck warmer making him look a bit like a painted turtle, heavy duty black mittens and often goggles. One didn’t miss Pete in the winter.

Our conversations of late would turn to his desire to be out of Vermont weather, to be a snowbird rather than a Cardinal. Like mosquitoes, several schemes were hatched in the warm months but never came to fruition.

One day I drove by and they were just gone. A trial journey to North Carolina where they have family. The house sat, oddly silent, up on the hill, a light in the window to thwart any thoughts of a break in. The garage door, always open and at the ready, closed. When I walked by it felt like the house was looking back at me: the eyes with window shades pulled half down and the mouth shut tight to avoid revealing the secret of where the owners had gone. I found myself standing at our kitchen window looking up the road to see if Pete and Cooper might come by. I missed gauging the weather by Pete’s attire.

It struck me that this was a fracture of the whole of the lives on our short road. Without Pete, we were three-quarter and I felt it.

In a world where we are becoming more and more disassociated from each other, I am craving the familiar orange of Pete’s year round cap bobbing as he pulls himself down the road with his walking stick.

I love shopping in a store where the owners are behind the counter. Buying hay directly from the farmer, getting mail in my rural post box, standing and chatting with Zena, our mail carrier from the passenger side of her enormous Jeep. These things make my world feel circular and complete.

A piece is missing from the whole of my familiar. I miss Pete.