One Summer night in Jericho, Vermont
It was as warm a summer night as ever there was in Jericho, Vermont. The crickets sang out for the home team in white noise* to screen out all environmental injustice and inequities**. The bowling alley parking lot lights flickered, while inside twilight barely broke, just enough to soften the creamy pins and black obelisk supports spaced sparingly in between lanes. Vermont-brewed beer flowed from a stream of taps like water over boulders, splashing and foaming, rising over the banks of mismatched glasses.
He rested his chin on her grey silk collar trying to recall where he had met her. It didn’t matter. So it was for her, just that he was tall and thin in the frame, thick and stout where it mattered, sweet and kind of heart when the fat popped and sizzled in the pan.
He didn’t nuzzle or move. She no more melted than hot fudge on hard ice cream.
One of the bowlers stepped up to and over her looking down upon the head resting upon her like a sparrow atop an eagle’s nest. Some chide comment to her about cuddling near the bowling lanes. The bowler needn’t have bothered, nothing could pull them apart and out of this enclave of serenity amidst the bustling of splintering fifteen-inch high forested pins.
She looked up briefly at the onlooker, then back to the top of his curly-haired head. He lifted not an eyebrow and the interloper moved on without saying a word that would have been lost in the turbulence, and never would have come close to the deep silent trough it sought to pierce.
Time walked in the solstice of gestation. He lingered and longed for a cabin, a tract of land, dark skies at night, quiet loud enough to hear footsteps, the smell of pine and spruce, shadows of oak, maple, and birch, fireflies, and native solitary bees without honey or need of large families.
She knew the dependence, the fortitude, the bedrock she offered could if he wanted last forever, or as long as forever lasted these days. She also knew children only tie to their mother’s aprons for a short time before they are off on their own chasing kite strings, Ferris wheels, and rolling the dice to see what comes next.
Still for this moment, with hundreds of six to sixteen-pound red, green, purple, and black cannon balls gyrating towards steadfast resistance of hard rock maple, the silence about to be extinguished, buried, washed away; the reticence of the force between them held fast.
Sometimes the spark, the explosive fireworks are the pinnacle of the night, while seldom, yet not unwanted, the unlit gunpowder is more than enough to not only charge the cannons, but to heat them up to a molten burning simmering that cares not to boil, or blast. Sensation that rides neither forward nor back, feels no constraints, no want, and has no beginning or end in sight.
His breath warm, pulse sure and slow, her hair wispy and comforting blanketing his face. How could turbulence surround yet not enter, and where could one find such a portal of time and place to last what was left of a lifetime?
What past did he carry with those big strong hands? How many trysts and shenanigans had he maneuvered through to grow all those lovely curls of thick brown hair sautéed in silver and white spicy strands?
How far would this quiet stream carry him, how long could he swing on this braided long cord of silken hair? How could such a tender gentle delicate frame (hers) hold up this outdoorsman with scales of hardness equal to a red oak?
Do those curls lead to deep brown pools of smiling eyes that set up the morning with expectations and explorations into the wonders of nature?
If I climb up this silky collar and hoist myself higher than I have ever been, will I find bluish-grey eyes that sparkle even on the cloudiest of days, that light up with the first rays of morning sunrise?
Who is this tender robust unconventional man suddenly so close to me yet so unknown to me that I dare not awaken him or myself, for fear I will know the answers before the mystery has rooted itself deep enough to grow in full daylight?
Whereupon did I fly, did I float, did I amble to reach such blissful repose, such calm deep waters, such a comforting supportive nest?
Must night always be followed by day? Must tomorrow always come after today? This one summer night in Jericho will last forever in our minds. But must we leave it now, or can we extend the bliss, stretch out the quaint dirt roads with their grit and pose matching both the vulgarities and pleasantries of weather in Vermont?
Let's walk those roads together, one rambling path at a time. Cross the streams and small rivers that crisscross this valley in the eyes of the great Mount Mansfield as it stares down upon us without encumbrance or impediment.
First, shall we take rest in the shadows of the steadfast oak on the village green and watch town life as it enters and departs from the Jericho Country Store with coffee, and creemee in hand? Hot and aromatic, soft and sweet, like us close together.
A climb to the top of Bolger hill awaits us. Have we the fortitude to hill it hand in hand? Shall we first pull a book off the Jericho library shelf, perhaps a child's storybook? They tell life stories through the eyes we once looked through.
OH, to come down, why must all great heights offering majestic views and dreams and goals, and fancies, why must they all, nearly as soon as one reaches the pinnacle, go down?
What will lift us again? Let us walk the sidewalks of Jericho Center to meet and ask others what more hills we might climb and descend to fill our desires to no end. Alas, what is that but a goat on a hill, a sheep on the sidewalk, a bear on the green? Yes, we are in a rural town, what else might we come upon on our sidewalk stroll?
Will we find ourselves in others? For so long we were lost in each other, your chin on my shoulder, your shoulder my nest. But now we have left that summer night, kicked out of Eden, swept into the foray of life.
We stroll, we amble, and we stop to look at the tall asters sheltering us from too-fast roads and telling us beauty is wild and unconstrained at its best.
Bikers and runners, strollers, and battery-powered pint-size kid cars pass us by. We meet teachers and lawyers, students and graduates, storekeepers and shopkeepers, gardeners, farmers, artists, and a stoneworker. We meet neighbors and visitors, new-to-town folks, and new folks born into the town of late.
We look at each other after each encounter. Who we are changes each time. How young they look, how much older they have become, how spry they are, how carefully they walk supporting each other, how fortunate they have been, how desperate and tired they appear, how much weight they all seem to carry, how some carry it well while others show signs of load bearing shoulders. Regardless, all seem to have morsels of gold, prisms of light, balloons of gaggles and joys, and these they share with us freely and most exponentially.
We will take this all back with us when we recline into each other's arms for another heavenly summer night in Jericho.
Footnotes: *White noise is known for being an even, constant sound. Technically, it's when there are many frequencies with equal intensities, for example rain, crickets chirping...
**American society distributes nature’s benefits—and the effects of its destruction and decline—unequally by race, income, and age. People of color, families with children, and low-income communities are most likely to be deprived of the benefits that nature provides. Read more here.
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