Markers

In the middle of the pandemic, once we realized we were not going to be returning to, what we thought of as reality, I found myself marking time. Looking toward the people, places and things that helped define where we were and where we were going. Many of these markers synonymous with tradition.

I consider Autumn to be the time between back to school and the Tunbridge fair; leaves changing, tour buses arriving, letting people off to wander the downtown asking about places to eat, plastic lainards swinging around their necks. Rays of the sun beginning to slant casting long shadows, but some days warm enough for the brave of heart to plunge back into the river for one final swim. We put small pieces of wood into the stove to take off the early morning chill but toss our sweatshirts over the sheep fencing as we do late afternoon chores. Autumn is a sandwich time.

There is a line in the sand after we put goblins to bed and welcome stick season. November skulks in with it’s dark personality casting a veil of gloom. The tilt of cold rain replaces the slant of sunshine and we spend our Sundays dragging warm coats from retirement. The leaves remain in a soggy pile, remnants of the dry skittering in October.

This is officially stick season; chicken pie supper and pre-Christmas time.

I watch the papers and ask friends to check online for ads for [the] suppers. There is more than one traditional Vermont supper; the ham and baked bean supper rivals the chicken pie for some people (not me) Most suppers still occur as the big church fundraiser. A friend who we periodically eat dinner with shot me an ebullient email, clearly shouting, about an upcoming chicken pie supper at the Methodist church in a neighboring town. I immediately call and reserve three place settings for the later seating. There isn’t an online doodle to fill out, you have to call Mabel and reserve yourself. This, alone, makes it one of my favorite things.

When we walk in, volunteers from the church are dressed alike; black pants, white top and orange (seasonal) aprons. We are in the church basement which immediately smells familiar. Along the stage, between the heavy red velvet curtains, are small paper plates with a variety of pies on them. Before we are served anything, people grab their favorite pies. This year there was, of course, pumpkin, apple but also a peanut butter pie making a surprise, non-trad appearance. We didn’t go rogue but stuck with pumpkin. The woman standing on the stage carries a spray can of whipped cream and as you walk by you nod if you want a squirt, which, of course I do, twice.

We find our names on one of the long, white folding tables and take our seats. I spend a moment looking around the room, thinking about how much time I have spent in a church basement either at craft fairs or suppers. There is a comfort in this setting, maybe it is because of its familiarity but, as I look around at everybody talking and laughing together, a community gathered over biscuits and some gravy, I feel like I can take a breath. We talk about sheep with two kids and their father who are sitting across from us and, by the end of the supper, we have invited them to come to the farm and meet our animals. The minister stands and talks about the church’s service to the community in these difficult times, offering food, diapers and even money to those in need. The warmth in the room is palpable and is from more than just the large heaters on the walls.

We spend the weekend buttoning up. The wind, newly blowing from the North, whispers to hurry. Paul brings the wood splitter down to the lower shop and returns with the snow blower. We call and make plans to put snow tires on our cars and sit on metal chairs in a line at the pharmacy waiting to have our flu shots. In our basement we pile potatoes into the bin and tuck them in under beds of sawdust next to a white bucket filled with butternut squash in various sizes. I pick a blood-red jar of tomato sauce and one of pink applesauce to bring up for dinner. We set up our card table in the living room and begin, once again, to eat dinners in front of our fireplace, the two dogs settled on top of our feet.

The Peacham Crafters Guild market falls early in the month and we take time off to go. We drive down the curving road enjoying the yellow of the Beech trees, starkly beautiful against the dark, November sky. The wood stairs of the town hall creak creek as we climb them to the gym. As we enter on Friday morning before noon, there is already a line waiting to cash out. Several volunteers standing behind the makeshift counter figuring prices. I stand quietly in the corner and take it in. The basketball nets fixed onto opposite cement walls- so close together we imagine the games must only take minutes to [conclude] complete. Along the walls are draped Christmas red and green tin foil garlands. They have seen better days but I know they have been wound up and tucked into a box every year for decades. Paul in the lead we head over to the corner where they are serving lunch. There re several big tins of soup, a basket of biscuits and paper plates filled piled with homemade cinnamon buns. Paul eagerly takes a cup of the split pea soup and a biscuit while I indulge in a large cinnamon bun. We find a seat at a small round table with a wax table cloth covered in Santas. In no hurry and still hungry, I talk Paul into a to-go cup of pea soup. The next hour is spent slowly wandering each booth, prices written on paper tags. We find an old Christmas candle meant for the window, a crafter having decorated it with antique ornaments and snowmen. I tuck a clay potted Christmas cactus under my arm to walk around the table of homemade jams and jellies. I buy a big loaf of bread for Sunday french toast and a small sandwich bag with three pumpkin snicker doodle cookies in it. A woman sitting in a wheelchair talks with me about sheep and wool as I peruse her handmade wool rugs.

Still a line for payment, I clutch my gently-worn items and wait. Cash rules at the craft fair and I pull some bills out of my wallet. Once my treasures are rolled in tissue paper and bagged Paul and I head toward the corner to leave. Just before descending the wood stairs, I turn to take it in one final time. Closing my eyes I inhale the smells turning them into memories.

Mid November, just before my birthday, we wake up to snow falling. Tossing a few chunks of wood into the stove I let the dogs out and stand in the cold of the doorway. A couple ewes are at the fence looking for breakfast. I watch Paul use a broom to clear the steps out of the chicken coops, the hens gingery lift their feet as they walk down into the snow.

Seamus leaps around, uncertain of what to make of this new development and I laugh as another black and white puppy begins his winters.

Back inside I slide eggs into slippery oil in cast iron. They pop and crack as I sprinkle them with flecks of pepper. I see Josh’s truck slowly roll past the window. He stomps his feet as he comes in, making a point of sniffing breakfast cooking. I hand him the wrapped package of deep chocolate brownies tinged with blood orange olive oil that I have made for him to take to deer camp.

I watch him load them into his truck, shuffling bags of the red plaid wool clothing my father once wore hunting. Snowflakes fall as if in slow motion; big, fat, inexperienced snow fall. Josh begins a new hunting season, another without my father, all beautiful markers of time passing, of life being lived.