We set out on a rainy morning, in search of honey, dirt, and maple. Mists rise in valleys, over rivers and fields, and float into the mountaintops. Driveways and yards, in town and out in the country, have winter woodpiles in all stages of progress.
From loglength deliveries awaiting processing, to neat stacks in woodsheds near houses, next winter’s heat is at hand.
We soon leave asphalt roads for a dirt road, and make our first stop, to buy a pail of honey from a gracious and pleasant beekeeping couple. They live in a fine, solid timber framed home, hard by a river. Their gardens are beautiful.
After leaving, we slither along through damp, constricted valleys on narrow but well-tended dirt/gravel roads. The mist clouds are the lightest and brightest color to be seen. The darkest and blackest color appears here and there in the dark, swampy bottoms, in the stems and dead leaves of patches of frost-killed goldenrod.
Coming into a little crossroads community, we see some of the enterprise and creativity that may be found throughout this state.
A hundred feet down the road is a fine stone construction.
And across the road is a fine sign. With a fine old Yankee expression.
After a while, we reach Hardwick, and stop for a sandwich lunch at Connie’s Kitchen. Then we drive the last few miles to Dirt. To a farm in Cabot, where our old friends Lee and Ruth are building an enterprise that specializes in winter storage vegetables.
Parsnips are just one of their crops.
They’ll get a post of their own, soon.
Lee and Ruth said a friend of theirs might have some maple. After a phone call, and the drawing of a full page map, we set off to find the friend, and the jugs of maple. The trip over to maple involved a lot of turns, and ups and downs, through woods and fields.
When we announced ourselves at the door, we heard, “Oh my goodness, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Nor had we seen her in ages.
The last time had been?
In our house in West Tisbury.