An uninspired foliage season has passed. Leaves were influenced by the severe drought that had impacted Central Vermont for several months. Browned and fragile easily they dropped from the trees at the mere suggestion of a breeze. The colors while dulled were magical still.
A hard frost. Thirty-two degrees this Sunday morning with November gray skies overhead. Stick season in full view. The secrets of the forest floor and its inhabitants now exposed.
The spine of the Green Mountains is dusted white. Elevation coated in sparkles and purity. Killington Resort making snow with a boost from Mother Nature. Preparation for ski season is fully underway…
Logging down the street fills the cold still air with clanking and banging that feels closer to my house than just a half mile away. From the road it appears like the lion’s share of trees has been removed but in fact a careful process is in play. So, I am told. Catering to the health of the Sugar Maples in preparation for a late winter early spring sugaring operation. Vermont is never idle…
The first flakes to fall always evoke an emotional response for me. I suspect it stems from happy childhood memories. Building snow forts with my brother. Skating on our backyard pond. Sliding down the hills of my childhood home on a metal flying saucer. My mom pulling me on a sled in striking 50’s fashions while she donned a classic red lipstick looking more like Jackie Kennedy than an at home mom in rural Rehoboth, MA. She was beautiful no matter the where or what…
As I dressed for an early walk this morning, I went over to my tapestry covered hope chest. Cedar lined it houses my oldest and most cherished collection of sweaters. The tapestry a bit worn. As am i. Knicks and dings telling the story of numerous family moves throughout New England and a trans-Atlantic expat adventure in the late 90’s.
Opening the heavy lid of my antiquated chest I plucked out a rosy, pink mohair cardigan. The large buttons bounced against the wooden frame clicking in protest at my haste. Bursting with several mohair sweaters I selected the color that suited me today. The soft playful fibers immediately offered a tactile comfort. Neatly they are folded and ready to be employed during the winter season ahead.
Considered vintage now but bought new at Betsy’s in Wellesley, MA. A small boutique long since closed was known for its carefully selected unique merchandise. The owner once worked with a group of women knitters located in Maine. Offering beautiful handknit sweaters to Betsy’s clientele. The collection of sweaters was remarkable, and special orders were also available. What I would give to relive some of those shopping moments. To get lost in beautiful fibers, colors and textures. One was more special than the other. The employees of Betsy’s became friends and wearable art a forever love…
Pink mohair. The sounds of heat rising in the early morn. Coffee more fragrant as the day begins. The chill in the air has settled over the rolling hills for a long stay. Christmas candy on display in local stores. Christmas movies headlining Netflix. The season has shifted from leaves underfoot to thoughts of the holidays, measurable snow and the sound of plows scraping along the pavement. Hiking boots to Bogs. Down coats and Skida hats. White exterior festive lights will soon dance and glow warmly along my remote road as the skies darken early…
“A year in Vermont, according to an old saw, is nine months of winter followed by three months of very poor sledding.” – Bill Bryson (travel writer)
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