Drinking from the fountain of (my) youth.

Just a woodshed

I had second thoughts about taking my own route Wednesday. The extra miles, the possibility of rain, and really, what difference would it make? All the difference in the world, it turns out. I’ve cycled a lot of miles, the best of which have been on the Fuller Center Bicycle Adventure, and this has been the best of all.

I had a rough time following my own directions out of Saratoga Springs. I just put my cue sheet aside and got out of town working from memory and help of Saratoga’s finest. Approaching Schuylerville I stopped at the Saratoga Apple market (formerly Bullard’s Orchard) where I held my first job, and bought an apple. I crossed the Hudson and was on my way.

I took a couple extra miles to ride into Greenwich (for my route was skirting north of town), stopped at Stewart’s (one of the few landmarks I recognized) and “checked in” on Facebook. I posted “In Greenwich, headed to Spraguetown”. Spraguetown isn’t a town, but the name of the road I once lived on. Perfume of silage, manure, wildflowers, hay; all that which prime the canvas of life as we paint today, and fire the memory when rediscovered. Then I arrived at our old home not as I remember it.

We lived in a “trailer”, the vernacular for what is called a manufactured home now. It was replaced with another, and apparently some time ago. As I approached I announced with successive “Hello(s)!” my presence to anyone who might be home. There was no answer, so I closed in to take pictures.  What I was most interested in was the woodshed we built 42 years ago.   Hewn flat with adze from felled logs we’d then chisel to mortise the green foundation log to receive tenon of a dry upright; as the green wood dried it would shrink to hold the dry- old barn building techniques that pass the test of time. I felt the logs, remembering when sitting astride as we made the cuts, Dad teaching ancient methods of joining timber. The stones lay under them, placed so long ago; I imagined us hammering the nails now barely holding boards that came from a barn that, before recycling, already lived a hay-full life from the beginning of last century.

I was suddenly brought from reminiscing by a disturbed voice challenging me; the current owner. I suspected she had her gun at the ready below the window sill. That was how we greeted strangers in our day; Dad had a past he feared so shared his paranoia with us. I explained myself to her, offering to leave immediately. She calmed, but seemed a bit distressed living there alone, and I got the impression she was a shut-in. She started sharing openly with me, compared her suffering to that of Job. A bit of hem and haw led to questioning whether the land was cursed, for the stories she heard of the last owner, retelling the hearsay of my Father. I whole-heartedly assured her that it was not; to the contrary, if anything the land is blessed for it nurtured our family back to a semblance of normalcy. I bragged of the gardens providing abundantly for the four of us who tended them, the chickens, firewood- the years prior when it was a playground, perhaps a training ground, for a man and his sons. I needed to hear my words as much as she did, for a healing came over me. I gave her hope, she gave me grapes, and I drank the water. She absent-mindedly boasted the water was excellent; I told her I know- my roots are in it.

I stayed too long and she wanted me to come back, but I told her I must continue on my bicycle so that couldn’t be. I gave her my card and insisted she call in a couple of weeks when I return- she doesn’t have a computer so I promised her I’d post letters if she did. I know her address.

As I was leaving Shirley Dewey and Mr. Dewey drove up. Smiles and hugs from my old classmate and friend- I don’t care how we age, the spirit shines through the years. I hadn’t seen her in 40 and it felt wonderful. We chatted there in the driveway for a while, and then parted. As I progressed I photographed a deer and her fawn fleeing ahead of me. Funny- all the years we lived there I never saw a deer near the house.

A truck slowed behind me, and a smile out the window was just as I remembered it from 30 years prior, when I saw it last. My friend Neil- hunter, fisher, trapper, and partner in crime when we were teens. I saw him ten years after I left, but not since, but still, some people you just fall back into step with. Since Facebook we’ve kept in touch and it was good to hug him and share a bit of time. How the heart lightens at the honor of having these two come out and catch me. I really wasn’t expecting that at all.

I continued down the road, down the hill, around the lake, then another on roads that weren’t even a dim memory anymore, into Vermont. My directions were important now, “make a left on East 153”. The sign indicated only North or South were options and there was another road to confuse me. Nobody was in the post office; nobody was in sight. I flagged down the first car that came along. They gave me a map, and I learned they were from Mt. Dora FL, not far from my home. They called later to check on me.

I don’t ask God to make things easy for me, but I give thanks when He touches my day.

Without support I had the luxury of not being on a schedule, so meandered at a casual pace, arriving in Rutland at 4:30 with 84 miles total. I had traveled only 12 miles more than the group. I was on my own the rest of the night to find a shower and meal, and that was a yet another adventure. The days are too full to live and write about- and I’ve gone on long enough to bore even me.