Broad Brook Anthology: A Vermont Playdate

Lately, it seems as though checking my email feels an awful lot like walking down the driveway to my mailbox. The real mail, the stuff worth making the walk or logging into my account, lies buried beneath ads for Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I glance through my mail, both virtual and real, toss most of it into the recycle bin, and return to my writing or to household chores. Last week, however, in the course of scanning and dismissing most of my messages I nearly missed an important invitation from an old friend.

The message contained an announcement about an upcoming performance on which my friend had collaborated. Just over the border in southern Vermont, the town of Guilford was celebrating its 250^th anniversary. A local resident, a poet named Verandah Porche, had spent several years interviewing elderly town residents, mining their recollections of a lifetime shaped within the farmlands of the Connecticut River Valley. And until I typed that last sentence, I didn’t recognize the whimsy in the name of the woman who authored this project.

My initial response to the invitation was to dismiss the play as a small-time production, most likely performed with poor acting and amateur props. Then I stopped to think about my friend, a gifted photographer, and the quality of work I’ve seen him produce. I begin to consider the possibility that this little local production might actually be very good, perhaps even better than every Christmas pageant I’d ever attended throughout my life. Besides, I hold a special place in my heartfor old-timey family history, even if I don’t have a personal connection to those involved in the stories. The beloved Swede and I found we had some free time on our schedules, so we decided to make the drive to Vermont.

I am so glad we did. The production, titled Broad Brook Anthology, combined the recollections of local townspeople into a play for voices. The work was named for the stream which flows through the community connecting many of the family farms which provide context for the stories. Performed in the town’s historic meeting house, a company of six actors local to Vermont and New York gave voice to the reflections of the town’s elders. My friend had photographed the residents in their homes as they had told their stories; and he projected their portraits, interspersed with historical photos, throughout the course of the performance. Another resident composed original music for the play which a trio of local musicians performed.

We heard stories, stories about working hard on the family farm and of getting up early to deliver bottles of milk. The words: We were poor but we were satisfied, echoed throughout a number of the narratives. We laughed as we heard tales of mischief wrought in the days of one room schoolhouses, of children who fled to the hills at the sound of the recess bell never to return for afternoon studies. We saw photos of a devastating flood, one which shaped the earliest memory of a resident who watched as the current swept away his young cousin. We eavesdropped on courtship stories, many of which began at square dances at the local Grange hall. We viewed wedding photos of brides dressed in vintage gowns standing next to handsome men in uniform, some of whom had just returned from the war.

The final line of the performance came from a man who is now widowed but remains in the small community where he lived, loved, and raised a family. He said he finds peace in his solitude, surrounded by familiar landscape. He wanders the woods and hills of a place which shaped his life and considers the awe of existence itself.

This effort by local townspeople in celebration of their shared history accomplished so many good things. The play, and the years of work which went into creating it, honored the stories of ordinary men and women who had lived, loved, played, and worked in community with one another. Many of their stories have now been preserved in both image and word. A local poet, photographer, and composer; several actors, musicians, and audio and video technicians exercised their crafts, combining their efforts to produce something which was beautiful and good.

After the performance we returned to the home of our friends, nibbled on slices of fresh apple and chunks of Vermont cheddar, and told stories of our own. We caught up on one another’s histories, and shared our narratives of living, loving, playing, and work. At the end of the evening we said goodbye and turned down their dirt road, heading away from their place and toward our own.

And this morning I can’t stop thinking about the awe of existence itself.

Photography for Broad Brook Anthology provided by Jeff Woodward.

Linking with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

And with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring:

Where Were You?

(This is a slightly edited re-post of a piece I wrote last year in memory of the attacks of September 11, 2001. I am posting it again in observance of the ten year anniversary of that day. Won't you consider sharing your memories as well?)

Outside the sky was a brilliant blue, not even a wisp of a cloud dotted the horizon. Inside the home schoolroom however, storms were brewing. Only one week into the new school year and the excitement of unopened books and new school supplies seemed a distant memory, a cruel joke. My children bickered instead of working through assignments. Lacking patience to resolve conflict I reached for that desperate act most mothers resort to eventually, sending older sister to her room, hoping to salvage something of the morning.

After only a brief exile, my daughter returned from her bedroom. Before I could reprimand her, she said something was going on. She had been listening to the country radio station, and the announcer had said everyone should turn on the TV.

My first thought, upon hearing my daughter’s words, was that someone had shot the president. As with many in my generation, my earliest childhood memories are of watching news footage of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Though I was only two years old at the time, I can still see my mother, sister, and myself sitting on the floor in our first floor apartment, watching the black-and-white television set with rabbit ears as my mother ate chicken salad.

I knew my children were witnessing a similar defining moment in their lives, one which would create an indelible mark in their memories and shape much of their lives from that point forward. We cried. We knelt by the coffee table and prayed. Then I told them to write about what they were witnessing. My son was eight years old at the time, and my daughter was not quite twelve. The following are their journal entries from that day, reflecting their original spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

Son’s Entry: 9/11/01 Sunny

Planes crashed into the world trade center and the Pentagon, and it might be a war daddy is in Utah and the airports are closed. We were doing school and (sister) went to listen to her Radio, and then it happed. They said get your kids out of school and get them in front of t.v. so mommy went to go see what it was, and one plane crashed into the world trade center, then they said one crashed into Pentagon. Then the world trade center collapsed, then they said that another building collapsed.

Daughter’s Entry: 9/11/01                                                    Sunny                                                    Terrorism in America

Today the World Trade Center was hit by two airplanes. A scary deal. People hijacked the plane and flew it into one of the towers. Another followed in the next half hour. On my break I turned on my radio and they were telling people to take their kids out of school so I knew something was up. The tv was turn on and soon the first and second crash ended in the buildings collapsing. About 10,000 people died in the crash in New York. They are comparing it to Pearl Harbour. Much the same. We saw the second building collapse. White House was evacuated and so were all the important buildings. American and United Airlines were used as usage for bombs. The Pentagon was hit after the second tower was hit. There were a lot of people killed there and fire was pouring out everywhere.

Although I had asked my children to write about the day America was attacked, I hadn’t written about it until now. I want to remember that day, to remember how we had wept and prayed together, how we watched the horrible footage over and over, how we waited for news of rescue and survivors.

I’d forgotten how high the early estimates of casualties were, not that the numbers weren’t horrific enough. As my children had written, my husband was out West traveling on business. At first I wanted him home immediately, but all air traffic had been grounded. I called a friend whose husband was stationed at the nearby submarine base to see if, as a military wife, she had any more news than was circulating on the networks. She said only that her husband had called to say he’d be late. Once it occurred to me that my home was within striking distance of nuclear submarines, I no longer wanted my husband to come home. I figured he was safer from terrorists in the deserts and mountains of the West than we were on the East Coast, near a military asset. I had a full tank of gas and thought maybe I should just load up the kids and drive toward him.

People volunteered for blood drives. Flags flew. Strangers were kind to one another in the days following the attacks, when clouds of smoke continued to swirl in the streets of New York City. While walking through the parking lot of a shopping center, I saw an elderly woman back her car into that of another. I saw that she was visibly upset and, after making sure she wasn’t injured, tried to reassure her. “Everyone’s a little shaken these days,” I said.

I learned that a young woman from my hometown had been killed in the collapse of one of the towers. When I was a young girl with a paper route, her family was among my customers. A gangly, awkward, pre-teen, I always looked forward to the possibility that she might answer the door, offering her friendly smile and a few kind words. She was tall and beautiful and a member of the girls’ basketball team, and she made this shy, awkward girl feel so special when she came to the door to take the newspaper.  She was just one of so many beautiful people killed on that day.

Airplanes started flying again and when we heard one overhead, my children and I looked up as if seeing something for the very first time. My husband returned home, and a few short days later our family flew together out West. We had to get up much earlier than usual to undergo new search and security procedures. We saw dogs and soldiers and automatic weapons in an American airport. The flight attendants on our plane were visibly nervous, though trying hard not to appear so. I asked one how she was doing. She tried to assure me that she was okay, but then pointed to a large, muscular passenger seated next to me and said, “But if anyone gives me any trouble, I’m coming for him.”

When we arrived at our destination at a national park, a huge American flag flew against the red rock entrance and bright, blue sky, the same brilliant blue which had colored the sky before all the trouble began. A sign in front of a hotel read, “Thanks for traveling. God bless America.”

These are the things I needed to write down, to remember so I can tell them to generations to come. Things I want never, ever to forget.

On her outstanding blog, my friend Amy Sullivan has posted a number of suggestions of ways to commemorate the ten year anniversary of September 11. Won't you click over there and read some of her ideas? How about you? What are your plans for observing this anniversary?

This piece has also been posted in the online edition of (The Hartford Courant)

Where Were You? Snapshots Of History

Outside the sky was a brilliant blue with not even a wisp of a cloud on the horizon. Inside the home schoolroom, however, storms were brewing. Only one week into the new school year and the excitement of unopened books and new school supplies seemed a distant memory, a cruel joke. Brother and sister bickered instead of working through assignments. Their teacher was perhaps the chief offender and greatest of sinners, lacking patience to resolve conflict, and forgetting to pray for wisdom in the gathering storm. She resorted to the act of desperation most mothers reach for eventually, sending older sister to her room, hoping she could salvage something of the morning so that younger brother might learn something.

After a few short moments, sister returned from her bedroom. Before mother could reprimand her, sister said something was going on; the announcer on the country radio station had said everyone should turn on the TV.

This was how my morning began on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. My first thought upon hearing my daughter’s words was that someone had shot the president. As with most in my generation, I have distinct memories of watching news footage of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination, though I was only two years old at the time. Sitting on the floor with my mother and sister in our first floor apartment, watching the black-and-white television set with rabbit ears is, perhaps, my earliest childhood memory. I remember that my mother had made chicken salad sandwiches and ate them while watching the news on TV.

I knew that my children were witnessing a similar defining moment in their lives, one which would make an indelible mark in their memories and shape the direction of their lives from that point forward. We cried. We knelt by the coffee table and prayed. Then I told them to write about what they were witnessing. My son was eight years old at the time, and my daughter was not quite twelve. The following are their journal entries from that day, reflecting their original spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

Son’s Entry: 9/11/01 Sunny

Planes crashed into the world trade center and the Pentagon, and it might be a war daddy is in Utah and the airports are closed. We were doing school and (sister) went to listen to her Radio, and then it happed. They said get your kids out of school and get them in front of t.v. so mommy went to go see what it was, and one plane crashed into the world trade center, then they said one crashed into Pentagon. Then the world trade center collapsed, then they said that another building collapsed.

Daughter’s Entry: 9/11/01 Sunny                                                                     Terrorism in America

Today the World Trade Center was hit by two airplanes. A scary deal. People hijacked the plane and flew it into one of the towers. Another followed in the next half hour. On my break I turned on my radio and they were telling people to take their kids out of school so I knew something was up. The tv was turn on and soon the first and second crash ended in the buildings collapsing. About 10,000 people died in the crash in New York. They are comparing it to Pearl Harbour. Much the same. We saw the second building collapse. White House was evacuated and so were all the important buildings. American and United Airlines were used as usage for bombs. The Pentagon was hit after the second tower was hit. There were a lot of people killed there and fire was pouring out everywhere.

Although I had asked my children to write about the day America was attacked, I hadn’t written about it until now. I want to remember that day, to remember how we had wept and prayed together, how we watched the horrible footage over and over, how we waited for news of rescue and survivors.

I’d forgotten how high the early estimates of casualties were, not that the numbers weren’t horrific enough. As my children had written, my husband was out west traveling on business. At first I wanted him home immediately, but all air traffic had been grounded. I called a friend whose husband was stationed at the nearby submarine base to see if, as a military wife, she had any more news than was circulating on the networks. She said only that her husband had called to say he’d be late; they needed to button up the submarines. Once it occurred to me that my home was within striking distance of nuclear submarines, I no longer wanted my husband to come home. I figured he was safer from terrorists in the deserts and mountains of the west than we were on the east coast, near a military asset. I had a full tank of gas and thought maybe I should just load up the kids and drive to him.

People volunteered for blood drives. Flags flew. Strangers were kind to one another in the days following the attacks, when clouds of smoke continued to swirl in the streets of New York City. While walking through the parking lot of a shopping center, I saw an elderly woman back her car into that of another. I saw that she was visibly upset and, after making sure she wasn’t injured, tried to reassure her. “Everyone’s a little shaken these days,” I said.

I learned that a young woman from my hometown had been killed in the collapse of one of the towers. When I was a young girl with a paper route, her family was among my customers. A gangly, awkward, pre-teen, I always looked forward to days when she answered the door, offering her friendly smile and a few kind words. She was tall and beautiful, and a member of the girls’ basketball team and made this shy, awkward girl feel so special when she came to the door to take the newspaper from me.  She was just one of so many beautiful people killed on that day.

Airplanes started flying again and when we heard one overhead, my children and I looked up as if seeing something for the very first time. My husband returned home, and a few short days later our family flew together out west. We had to get up much earlier than usual to undergo new searches and security procedures. We saw dogs and soldiers and automatic weapons in an American airport. The flight attendants on our plane were visibly nervous, though trying hard not to appear so. I asked one how she was doing. She tried to assure me that she was okay, but then pointed to a large, muscular passenger seated next to me and said, “But if anyone gives me any trouble, I’m coming for him.”

When we arrived at our destination at a national park, a huge American flag flew at the entrance against red rock and bright, blue sky, that same brilliant blue that had colored the sky before all the trouble began. A sign in front of a hotel read, “Thanks for traveling. God bless America.”

These are the things I needed to write down, to remember so I can tell them to generations to come. Things I want never, ever to forget. Won’t you join me in writing down your memories of that day?