Community

When a spring season arrives it somehow feels like everything is new, as if winter has frozen my brain and made me forget spring. The leaves, curled tight like small green fists yesterday, have unfurled today, stretching their fingers toward the warmer sunshine. Looking out the kitchen window there is new texture across the mountains, a slight fuzz beginning on the bald mountains. I quietly watch the mother Robin sit her nest that she tucked under the eaves of our roof, safe from the rain. Directly above my window and opposite the Robin is the Phoebe abode. With the window open I hear babies calling for food. Their mother and father swoop in above the window, the calls stop for a moment and, as soon as their parents depart, begin again. The Robin, whose pale blue eggs have not hatched, sits on a branch outside the window and scolds the noisy Phoebe family.

Daffodils, with centers the color of egg yolks, decorate the woods. Hyacinths open and fill the air with their purpley scent. Tulips stand tall and straight, tops triangulated like an arrow-head. Unopened, their color will remain a surprise.

We kneel down and pick fiddleheads on our walk. I sautee them with mushrooms and onions to pile on top of pizza crust for dinner. Each bite tastes like the woods.

The first farmer’s market is Saturday. We stuff cloth bags into the back and stop at the ATM to get cash. Bronte rides with her head out the window. Her black coat and face coupled with her pointed ears give her the appearance of a wolf riding shotgun.

As we park we can see bright blue tents in the parking lot toward the end of State Street, near the Capitol. They make the market feel like a carnival.

Walking in we are greeted by John. He is in official capacity and wears his Montpelier Farmer’s Market shirt over his long sleeves. He is happy to see us and gives me a hug, balancing his burrito in one hand.

The parking lot has been transformed. We begin on the outside of the square and walk slowly past goat’s milk soap and handmade candles. Bronte, on a short leash, touches noses with other dogs. In the corner I see Sarah cooking vegetables for Lebanese fare. She laughs, pushes the hair out of her face and wraps some delicious smelling food in an aluminum-foil tent. I stop and look at the handmade cards. Paul walks past me and fingers the fresh mushrooms piled in a mountain on a cloth covered table. A man with a guitar sings from under a tent in the center of it all. We stand and catch up with old friends. Afterward we find Kristen who owns the wool mill down the road from us. She embraces us and her daughter runs over, takes the leash from my hand and off she and Bronte go to make rounds. While she has plenty of sheep, she has no dog and is happy to borrow ours. I watch her sidle up to her friends and show Bronte off.

Standing in the middle of the market, smelling food cooking, listening to people laugh, I think about less than a year ago when the very spot we are standing was under water. There were no blue tents, no racing children, no laughter.

Everyone of us was touched in some way; Paul and I were isolated by the devastation for seven days, Muir and I stood in the downpour and watched Paul try to get us across the raging stream for four hours. Even now when I hear hard rain on our metal roof, I feel a sense of discomfort and fear.

Our community worked hard to be here. We lifted ourselves and each other alongside these blue tents.

Spring is the time of renewal. From our frozen ground come the forget-me-nots. It becomes our job to bloom where we’ve been planted.