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 250th 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:
