Somewhere Between Acorn and Oak

Today we dined at New World Tortilla on Pine Street. I love their fresh, hand-made corn tortillas, and Matea enjoys the curry tortilla. Towards the end of the meal, Matea noticed a strange guy who seemed to be staring at her. Though she didn’t recognize him, it turned out to be our old neighbor Greg, who lived above us on Decatur Street in the first house we rented in Burlington. He lived with two roommates, Jay and Megan, who we still see occasionally. We truthfully didn’t interact with them much, though we did watch their cat for a week while they were away (which, in turn, introduced us to our favorite pizza, Junior’s, via a thank-you gift certificate). Anyway, it turns out that Greg seems much nicer and more talkative than he did back then. He’s married, and so are Jay and Megan (to each other). The crazy part was that Greg had lived above us for a year or so, then we moved out and he lived in Boston for five years before moving back to Vermont recently. I can’t believe we’ve lived here long enough to run into someone we knew before they moved away for five years! But the truth is that we’ve spent most of our adult lives here. We moved here at age 23, and May marked our 7th year in the Green Mountain State.

Tonight we’re going with friends to belatedly celebrate my 30th birthday, so maybe that’s why this being-an-adult epiphany has finally hit me. Though I could come up with a much lengthier list of reasons I am still child-like, here are some recent warnings that I am slowly reaching adult maturity:

1. Last night I edged along the driveway, and I was as proud of that as a 3 year old is a finger painting. I wanted to take a picture of my edging and display it on the refrigerator. A similar warning sign was the fact that I also swept the entire driveway. After swearing as a teenager that I would never even clean my room as an adult, I surely never thought I would be sweeping the driveway!

2. I ordered soup for lunch today. And I eat kale, even when no one’s watching.

3. I am usually out of bed in the seven o’clock hour on weekends.

4. There is no greater happiness every day than the moment my head hits my pillow.

5. Last month I voted at my first neighborhood association meeting and had a serious conversation about waste water compliance.

6. I’m planting my first vegetable garden on Wed evening.

7. I was jealous yesterday of a retired coworker who is taking some UVM mini-courses meant only for those 50 and older.

Anyway, I’m proud to have already established a “history” here. I love Vermont. I love weeding the flower beds. I love vacuuming the baseboards. I love doing favors for my mother-in-law (and do not take having a mother-in-law for granted). I love walking the dogs, even when it rains. I LOVE trash night. I love emptying the dishwasher. I love tinkering in the garage. I excitedly bought myself a wheelbarrow with my Nana’s birthday check. I suggested to Matea that we attend the opera next month.

Oh, youthful Chrissy. I’ve left you behind somewhere along the way and didn’t even know it. I will think kindly of you from time to time. And I promise to write.

Embarrassing Admission #14: The Tesh Offensive

I just may have listened to the John Tesh Radio Show once or twice...on purpose. His “Intelligence For Your Life” segments on easy listening radio here in the Champlain Valley have oft caught my attention. I’ve even stayed in the car listening to extra Lionel Richey songs just to avail myself of his sage advice. He just reels me in with his Teshy teasers. “What’s the one thing researchers say you should never do in the workplace?” he asks. “Stay tuned to make sure this common medical mistake doesn’t happen to you.” “We have some tips on minimizing your pet’s end-of-life suffering, coming right up,” he promises. Too often, though, he leaves me wanting. He never really seems to get around to actually doing these segments. Just teaser after teaser. I try to wait, but you can only sit in the Shaw’s parking lot for so long listening to Billy Joel. Why must you torture me so, John Tesh!! Don’t let the piercing blue eyes fool you, folks. This man is nothing but a playa.

P.S.
Upon Googleing his name today, I find a story hot off the presses that he and Oprah Winfrey lived together in Nashville in 1974 and were romantically involved. According to Kitty Kelly, author of a new Oprah biography, Tesh broke it off with her because he could no longer take the pressures of being in an interracial relationship. Not too intelligent, if you ask me!

Performing for Change can be a Real Dragnet

Every day at 4pm I wait outside the Bruegger’s corporate office for Matea to get off work. As I crossed over Church Street yesterday, I saw a young girl (well, maybe late teens) with an acoustic guitar and thick-rimmed glasses busking for change in front of the pink Bank Street wall of Monelle. The day before I had watched a local homeless man pace back and forth talking to himself, puffing incessantly on a cigar. So, to see this nice, Loeb-esque young woman on the corner next to an open 15-minute parking spot was, to me, a stroke of good luck.

So I pulled in and rolled down both passenger side windows in anticipation of her singing “Kiss Me,” which I just knew would be next on her playlist. But no sooner had I switched off the ignition than the music abruptly stopped. I looked back to see a uniformed officer standing very close to her and flipping through some sort of ticket or note book. She was clutching the guitar close to her body in an almost defensive stance. I mostly could not hear what was being said between them, but I saw Sergeant Joe Friday gesture towards Church Street (she was, technically, firmly positioned on Bank Street, not Church) and then say more loudly, “You put that away and follow me to my squad car.” He said it just like that.

I saw the girl return her instrument to a soft case and...was suddenly scared to death by Barry, the hearing-impaired maintenance man from Matea’s office. He will occasionally come to my open window as I wait (he’s waiting to lock the doors at 5), and we will try to have a conversation in charades. Not knowing he was behind me, I jumped high in my seat and missed the rest of the interaction between Molly (or so said the sticker on her guitar) and Sergeant Friday. As Barry walked away, the two of them disappeared around the corner. But before they did, I called out a “boooo,” which was rather loud, but not loud enough, I knew, for any of them to hear. I supposed the cop took Molly back to his car, ran a background check, humiliated her, and then either gave her a fine or a warning for singing too close to Church Street, where one must first obtain an official Church Street Marketplace Street Entertainer License.

Performing for money on Church Street, with the blessing of the city, involves applying for a license, auditioning on a predetermined Tuesday at noon, being selected based upon several deciding factors, and then paying a permit fee between $5 and $25 dollars. If selected, there are also 4 pages of strict rules and regulations one must follow at all times. So much for spreading spontaneous joy to the window shoppers of Burlington. I know that some acts in the past have been a nuisance to both the public and the business owners of the Marketplace. But it seems like an easier system of natural selection could keep the bad acts weeded out. If you’re no good, the meager profits won’t be worth your while. If you’re great, folks will be chucking quarters at your case all day long. I absolutely love street performers. I can’t get enough of them, actually, and I love to attend the annual Festival of Fools that takes place in Burlington. I think the red tape and subjective, politicking bureaucracy of an audition process for ordinary Joes or college kids who need to earn an extra buck is a little much. Especially tersely reprimanding and marching an innocent chanteuse off to your squad car just doesn’t jibe with the atmosphere of this laid-back city. I say, Let ‘em Work, Let ‘em Live. Viva la Busker!

Being Bubbly Takes a Toll

Every time we get together with Georgia, we just can’t seem to get enough of her kind smile and easy-going demeanor (and self-proclaimed intellect and wit, as she just mentioned on the phone), and there must be something about us that she also enjoys. So, while I was on my trip to the concession stand to get popcorn for the White (-haired) sisters, she and Matea were busy contriving plans for a quick weekend trip to Portland, Maine. We took said trip last weekend, taking a half-day off work to get a jump on the four-hour drive across Vermont and New Hampshire, and up the Maine seacoast. We stopped almost immediately, in Waterbury, to have lunch at the Cider House barbecue restaurant, which began what I would call a weekend of beverages for my two travel companions (just a few hours later I would be making an emergency pit-stop at a service plaza off of Maine’s I-95 to procure $10-worth (i.e., two!) of Starbucks coffee drinks before both girls expired in road-worn exhaustion.) The food was delicious—it’s the only place in Vermont to get a fried okra po’ boy—and Georgia savored the opportunity to drink beer in the middle of a workday. Later that night, after checking into the Portland Harbor Hotel (finding our beds already turned down, complete with chocolate lobsters) we walked down to the Portland Pie Co. for some pizza…and more beer. Matea, of course, ordered a blueberry beer in honor of Maine’s staple fruit.

The next morning we used the gps locator on Georgia’s iPhone to lead us, eventually, to The Standard Baking Company for yet another round of coffee. Then it was non-stop shopping and window browsing around the Old Port and downtown areas. I have never browsed so many boutique shops in my life. We zigzagged the city at least three times, down Fore Street, up Exchange, across Middle, down Silver, back up Union, across Fore, Free, Congress, and Middle (again). We trekked back down to the wharf area to have an experience in bubble tea. This pearl of a drink was invented in Taiwan in the ‘80s and is largely a west-coast phenomenon in the U.S. But, lucky for Matea and Georgia, there is a little shop in the east-coast Portland that devotes itself wholly to this milky, murky concoction. I, as with most of the other beverage runs, did not partake. But I did take a tiny sip of Matea’s almond bubble tea, making sure to suck one of the black tapioca balls through the oversized straw to give it a try. It was virtually tasteless, with a seemingly indestructible, indigestible Dot-like consistency. It was more fun having Matea shoot one at me than having one slip down my throat like a cold, tiny luggie (OMG! that’s gross). After the tea it was the inescapable trip to Three Dollar Dewey’s, more and more shopping and, amazingly, another trip to Starbucks before the day was over. We wearily returned to the hotel with bags filled with stationery, Provence soap, and gourmet popcorn. (Georgia, I was going to write about the cuticle cream you purchased, but I felt it best left omitted.)

The final day of the trip, Sunday, was a test of my abilities as a not-for-profit chauffeur. By Saturday night the wind had begun to pick up due to a low-pressure trough (prob. not the correct term, but I like the way it sounds) that was moving up the eastern seaboard. On Sunday we were met with blowing rain and intermittent flakes of snow. We made our way to the requisite Sunday brunch, this time at Hot Suppa! on Congress Street. It required several U-turns and an aggressive parallel park. Outside the car, it seemed like somewhat of a flash-flood in the streets of Portland, and my socks were quickly soaked through thanks to the many access points in my dark-green Crocs. After brunch we hit the interstate in search of the Mecca for bargain hunters in the Downeast area: the Kittery, Maine outlet malls. By the time we hit Kittery, the wind was wild and unyielding, so I followed in my father’s footsteps and let Georgia and Matea out at the doors of their favorite shops. The back seat and trunk were filled with purchases in no time, and it was on to my second chauffersorial* duty: communing with the I-95 toll-takers. Matea told me once, though I have not been able to confirm, that toll-takers are among the professions with higher rates of suicide, due to the brevity of their interactions with other people over the course of their undoubtedly monotonous workday. The article stated, in a nutshell, that the rate could potentially be decreased by engaging your friendly toll-taker in a mere five-word exchange as you hand over your fistful of quarters. So it has become my mission, my life-saving responsibility, to work in, at minimum, a “Hi, how are you? Thanks very much,” at every booth. I count myself a savior of state toll plaza workers, a “cash only” vehicle amid a current of cold, non-communicative EZ-Pass whizzers-by. At the final booth, near the Hookset exit, I was greeted by surly-looking man in his eighties. As the gale-force winds and rain whirred around the plaza structure, I smiled at the man and said, “You enjoying this weather?” The man’s face turned as pleasant as if I had presented him with a gold bar rather than my measly 75 cents. “Not at all!” he replied emphatically. He chuckled and maintained eye contact for a few seconds before giving me the green light to continue on my way. It was only four words, but they had been effective.

Then, blah, blah, blah, New Hampshire was flooded, yada, yada, yada, we made it home safely, etc. But thinking about this toll-taker flash confabulation in which I have come to find great value, on both sides, reminded me of another solitary figure I encounter along the road.

Every morning on our drive in to work, we pass an open field where a gorgeous red-tailed hawk has made his home; the extensive teal, metal roofs of Paya’s auto dealership; a little dribble of a creek where I have seen several doe stealing a drink of water; the grand lawn of the Trinity Baptist Church compound; and a faithful friend we have come to call Merle Johnson. Around 6:48 am, just as our amazing view of the Adirondacks, cloaked in morning fog, descends below the tree line, Merle emerges in his gray, Carhart-like jacket, jeans, and flannel button-up, taking his morning solo walk down the eastbound lane of Mountainview Road. He is often carrying a plastic grocery bag, probably containing his lunch for the day, and on chilly mornings has his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. We have never interacted with Merle, save the occasional eye contact and acknowledging smile, but spotting him is something we have come to count on. On rare mornings when he does not appear, we wonder Where’s Merle Johnson? His presence each day brings the comfort of familiarity and constancy, especially since we have named him and created a sort of mythology of his life and journey. On mornings when we made it out the door a little earlier, we have seen him as he turned right onto Mountainview from Route 2A, and once, when we were running late, Matea believed she saw him reach his destination, Paya’s. Walking every morning with his head down, bathed in the diffused morning light like an apparition, he, too, looks like the kind of guy that could use five words. Perhaps we will drop in to Paya’s one afternoon and ask for the gentleman in the flannel shirt. And we will say, “Nice to meet you, Merle.”


*Again, not a real word, but I like it. :)

P.S.
Thanks to Portland for recharging our batteries, and for reminding us that everyone occasionally requires the gentle caress of kindness to brush away their own perception of invisibility.

Dust to Dust

Matea, Georgia and I took an impromptu trip to the Palace 9 on Oscar Sunday to see one more nominated film prior to the awards show later on that night. Not long after we had settled into our seats, I heard a mildly comical conversation going on behind me. Two elderly women had come in after us and had sat down in the seats directly behind. “You can eat popcorn?” one of them said with alacrity. “Yes,” the other said. “I thought you couldn’t.” “I thought I couldn’t, but I can. It’s fine,” replied her friend. After a few moments’ pause: “Well, we should get some,” the friend said. The woman let out a wistful sigh. “Too much work.” At this, my body must have tensed, or I must have tilted my head towards them, because Matea leaned over slightly and said, “Offer.” After deliberating for a few seconds in my head, and honestly allowing the moment to pass, I finally turned around in my seat and said to the woman over my right shoulder, “Would you ladies like for me to go get you some popcorn?” Her eyes widened. “Well aren’t you kind,” she said. Her age or her poise made her sound nearly British. (I’ve found many older, educated New Englanders tend to have an English quality to their speech.) I could tell their first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but as I remained turned around in my seat, I smiled brightly and said, “You should take me up on it,” in a friendly, sing-song kind of way. “Well, ok,” she said with cheerful reluctance, as if deciding something of importance on a whim. I nodded my head and lurched forward in my seat.
“We just want a child’s size,” they said before I stood to face them. I grasped Matea’s small popcorn in my fingers and said, “Would you like this size? This is a small.” I turned to find two white-haired women in their 70s or 80s sunken into two oversized, rocker-back movie theater seats. Their Brett Somers-esque spectacles shone brightly in the dim light, illuminated by the reflection of a pre-movie quiz on the screen behind me. It posed an inane question about Zach Effron to the half-capacity (no pun intended re the average age of viewer for this particular film) theater audience. “They also have the kiddie pack,” I said to the women, “which comes with a drink and candy.” I instantly felt I had thrown a wrench into the works. Georgia held her kiddie pack above her head where the women could see it. Though they both seemed to hold their breath in a moment of hurried deliberation, the diversity of colors and products in the kiddie pack seemed to delight the woman on the right, and she happily said, “We’ll take that one.” “Ok!” I said, leaning my elbow against my seatback. “Now, what kind of candy would you like?” Her accomplishment in making the first decision vanquished by the next, the woman seemed to try visualizing the candy counter in her head. Another smile gradually worked its way across her face. “M&Ms,” she said assuredly. I smiled back. “Plain or peanut?” Her eyes shot upward as if literally looking to her brain for the answer. “Let’s just do plain,” she said with a chuckle. “This is too much work,” I quipped. She and her friend laughed feebly before grabbing their purses and wildly shuffling through the behemoth bags to find exact change. When they had decided on the kiddie pack, the one on the left had asked, “How much is that?” “$6.02,” Georgia had answered. The woman on the right said, “For that?” My first thought was that she was happy with the price of this box of treats: a scoopful of popcorn, a sippy-cup-sized drink, and a compartment filled with a regular-sized bag of candy. But as they exchanged ones and fives with one another, carefully counting out the bills, I realized that these two children of the Depression had rather been shocked at the exorbitance of the price, but were too far into “taking me up on my offer” to back out now. The folding money sorted out and handed over to me, the hunt was on for the last two cents. I drove my hand into my pocket, but, of course, I never have cash or change on hand. Georgia and Matea simultaneously reached for their wallets, too, but the woman on the left, the not-quite-British one, rather gallantly interjected, “No, I have it right here.” She carefully placed the two pennies in my palm. Her skin was soft and thin like buttered filo dough. “And finally,” I said, “what sort of drink would you like?” Audible pondering sounds came from both of their mouths. “Something clear,” one of them mustered. “Is Sprite ok?” I asked. “Yes!” in unison. It had been a roller coaster of confusion and conviction for the two of them. Last decision made, they both receded back into their seats.
“Oh, hurry dear, before it begins,” said the cheerful woman on the right. I skipped off to the concession stand to meet the same teenager who had filled my personal snack order. A little embarrassed, I placed the ladies’ order. As the well-pocked youth filled the box with their selections, I hoped in the back of my mind that Georgia had correctly remembered the price, including tax, as the penny-wise elders had left her no margin for error and, as I knew, I had no other form of payment. Having put the women through what appeared to be an ultimately exhausting barrage of questions, I could not bear to return to them for an extra few cents, should the need arise. As the kid let the fizz rest and topped off their Sprite, a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I could not sneak in and get the change from Matea, as they were sitting directly behind us. I could not call her, as she is ever diligent about turning off her cell phone during any film or performance. I had decided on haggling with the now-idle gang of high schoolers behind the counter (I was the only person still filling a concession order), pleading my case on behalf of my enfeebled geriatric acquaintances back in theater number two. I’ll slip you the change on my way out after the movie, I would tell them. They’ll have no problem with this, I thought, as he punched in the PLU for “Kiddie Pack.” But no need for a convincing plea; Georgia had remembered correctly. I slid the $6.02 across the counter and pulled the box of warm, yellow kernels towards me. I unwrapped a straw and punctured the hard-plastic cup top, and made sure to get extra napkins. Back in the theater in a flash, the house lights still up, I handed over the box of goodies. The woman on the right handed the parcel over to her companion, and I placed the four napkins in her lap. They both offered a gracious “thank you,” still with a hint of pleasant surprise in their voices.
The film, The Last Station, began without delay. It told the story of famed Russian writer Lev Tolstoy in the golden years of his life, as he struggled to decide on the rightful inheritors of his legacy. By the time of his death at Astapovo Station at age 82, he had endured immense pressure from both his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy, and his protégé, Vladimir Chertkov, who both had a personal stake in securing the copyrights to the author’s written works. In the end, he and the Countess seemed a typical elderly couple preyed upon by more youthful family members (in this case, a Tolstoyan Movement that had taken on a life and mind of its own). Watching the Countess being locked out of doors like a child while her husband lay dying, I felt a slight bit of pride that my own inquest into the business of two elderly folks had been for selfless and benevolent ends. I thought to myself, when I am old and nominally incapacitated, and I find out one day, to my surprise, that I can still eat popcorn, I hope some youngster is willing to fetch me a box of treats covered in teddy bears and trains, too. I will surely be appreciative then. But this day, in the dark flickering of the theater light, like the waxing shadow of the next decade of my life, nothing could be more satisfying than hearing my two new geriatric friends quietly rip open a bag of M&Ms to share.

Plunder Woman, Here to Reap and Pillage

Few things are as tempting as a silver plate of fudge samples found unexpectedly at the register of a small-town specialty shop. How loudly the marbled slivers call to us, “Take me,” until we are finally willing to feign the sheepish grin at the teenage clerk and then go in for the kill. Nothing is worse in that moment, standing before a closely-attended sample display, than discovering the absence of the tiny glass toothpick keg. Do I take with my fingers? Are the morsels spaced far enough apart so that I won’t accidentally nudge a second piece with an errant knuckle or fingernail? And then, when you have consumed the spot of divinity placed there just for you, you raise your eyebrows to the clerk and say “hmm.” There’s a slight pause before she hits the total button on the cash register, just after realizing you’re not buying. Only the most audacious among us will, after taking our paper bag of postcards from her hands, go in for the second hit, holding the bit up to her momentarily in silent thanks...though I have seen it done.

Even better is the discovery of the well-hidden, unattended sample platter. A bowl of pulverized peanut brittle or strong, grainy mustard. A mirrored tray of candied nuts whose fresh, warm cousins are churning away just inches behind the glass barrier of the roasting machine. A suggestively open jar of black bean salsa, welcoming, almost daring, an assault of tiny round corn tortilla chips. The experience of sampling, of boldly taking what is not mine, is delicate and intimate and some kind of intrepid. It is the thrill of committing a crime I would never venture, the pretension of indulging in a boutique commodity I can scarcely afford.

Entering a gourmet food shop feels as if the world is throwing a tapas party in my honor. I suppress the urge to crack my knuckles loudly before I begin but quickly find myself moving through each station like Templeton conquering the heaps of edible refuse left over at the fair. Like a gracious dinner guest, I do not turn up my nose at the ones whose descriptions sound unpalatable. Free from the self-conscious inhibitions borne of being watched, I plunge pretzel sticks into every single jam and jelly. I pop a large green wasabi almond and chase it with a paper pill cup of hot mulled cider, shaking out every last drop as if I were standing in the shadow of Jim Jones himself. In the course of ten minutes I take the unassuming little shop for all it’s worth and walk out gnawing a toothpick to splinters. It is pedestrian and legal and even expected behavior, but I revel in an illusion of aggression and dominance, as if I am sneaking out in the early morning hours knowing I will never call.


My favorite places for free samples in Vermont:

Harvest Bread Company, Burlington, VT
The generous slice of wholesome, often-warm bread, accompanied by softened VT Butter and Cheese Co. butter, does not make up the for the exorbitantly-priced loaves…but it comes close.

Cold Hollow Cider Mill, Waterbury, VT
Fresh cider in Dixie cups. A round trough of mustards, jams, jellies to be tasted atop common crackers.

Stowe Mercantile, Stowe, VT
Jams, jellies, salsas, hummus, candied nuts abound.

Vermont Country Store, Weston, VT
An assortment of jams, sweets and cheeses to nibble on and sundry eclectic items to look at.

Cabot Cheese Outlet, Waterbury, VT
Gorge on cheese cubes to your heart’s content. Pop a handful of cheddar cheese shake popcorn on your way in, and on your way out.

Dakin Farms, Ferrisburgh, VT
Smoked cheeses and meats, maple products, salsas, fudge…bring a bib and enjoy.

Jean-Talon Market, Montreal, QC (okay, a short drive from VT)
A feast for foraging fruitarians, this market has lovely displays of fresh fruit samples at each of the hundreds of vendors that sell imported fruits and veggies seven days a week. And although you’ll have to pay for it, the freshly boiled corn-on-the-cob is worth its weight in gold.

Off to See The Wizard

This weekend we traveled some roads oft-taken (Interstate 89 and highways 100 & 108), and also discovered some new old haunts. Vermont promised to be in “peak color” following several weeks of abruptly crisp fall air and months of summer rain. As we do every Saturday from May to October, we began the weekend at the Burlington Farmer’s Market. As always, I had 2 broccoli samosas for lunch, and Matea had a veggie samosa and a Folk Foods “Bennie” bagel sandwich. We walked over to Mirabelle’s afterward to share a snack while we waited for the Flynn box office to open. We bought tickets to our perennial favorites in live theater, Winter Tales and A Christmas Carol. We’ll get tickets to The Nutcracker and an off-Broadway production of Annie when they go on sale later this month.

By the time we left the box office, a light rain and nasty cloud cover were again threatening our plans for viewing Vermont’s own seasonal spectacular, Foliage on the Mount. But after another hour or better, the clouds began to move out to the east. From the top floor of our house, I could see blue skies over the Adirondacks. So we hopped in the car and made our first new discovery of the weekend: Lake Iroquois. Unbeknownst to us, this beautiful lake is a mere 6 miles from our home. The sun shone fully for the first time in the day, and we took a group photo with the lovely red and yellow hues surrounding the lake. We saw a blue heron basking in the sun at water’s edge and a golden retriever joyfully bathing itself in a large mud puddle.

We then proceeded down I-89 to Stowe, where, we discovered, all the peepers in the state were undoubtedly also converging. After moving through Waterbury at a snail’s pace, we by-passed Stowe and a long line of crawling traffic and headed on our own to Lake Mansfield. The lake itself was, honestly, unimpressive, but the drive along the Little River, with surprise cascades and roadside waterfalls, was a great hit. There at the base of Mount Mansfield, we were also surrounded by lovely late yellows and oranges. Afterwards we rejoined the mob of visitors on Rt. 108. We noted license tags from all over the U.S. and felt a spot of pride as Vermonters, as if every towering maple were our own.

As we continued over the notch and through Jeffersonville and Underhill, the colors were dazzling as promised, though many of the early reds had faded in the higher elevations. As we drew closer to home, though, the colors became much brighter and more vibrant. In Essex Junction, every fifth tree seemed set afire. I would venture to say that the spits and flashes of color on our most familiar streets, close to home, were more appreciated than the grand vistas of color, range after range, we had seen elsewhere. (Matea had described a predominantly yellow and green mountainside in Underhill as resembling “bad broccoli.”) At some point, maybe, the dazzle of large-scale color began to suffer diminishing returns. But Lake Iroquois, where we spent only a brief moment, had been superb. The individual maples along West Street in Essex Junction were unparalleled.

We had spent the day focusing on the summit only to discover that, right now, the grass is sublimely green right here in the valley.