Chapter One
MAYFLOWERS
Springtime, Wildflowers and Good Neighbors
My brothers and I hid in the shadows behind the visitors' big touring car, peering around it as they stood with our parents and rhapsodized about our view to the East. They made observations about the cows in the pasture, the near ridge of maple trees, the feed crops in the valley, and ultimately fixed on the distant irregular hue of the Green Mountains and gushed in near unison, "Oh, it's so beautiful here. You're all so lucky!"
We boys, bunched behind the fenders of their car, tried to smother our snickers. That view was the only one we'd ever known. As we stepped out of the kitchen door every morning, it was just there; and though altered seasonally in spring green, or autumn reds and yellows or winter white, it was as familiar to us as the cows in the lane -- we knew no other.
Admittedly, there were times when the setting sun gave color to the clouds and sky above the mountains, and the shadows were just right, or when in late afternoon a summer shower produced a cloud-piercing rainbow, then we boys might agree it was nice, but with the inbred reservations of native Vermonters that's about as far as we would go.
It was not until I had been long away and widely traveled, with greater maturity and perspective, and with increasing nostalgia for the sights and sounds of this native place, that I could understand and appreciate our visitors' enthusiasms for the views from our back yard.
As boys, accustomed as we were to our local environment, we were not completely insensitive to things of beauty and, as the title of this chapter would indicate, the coming of April gave us the opportunity to demonstrate it.
In springtime when we were small, perhaps six to nine, we found a favorite forest refuge far enough from the house for pretense of independence, yet close enough for ready retreat in case imagined dangers emerged from the shadowed interior beyond. It was reached by crossing the front yard and road and then the lower hayfield which edged the woods. We would foray just inside the fringe of the forrest where we could occasionally peer out at Mom as she hung wash on the front clothesline but from where she could not easily observe us.
We had long known the place as the "Ledge," a steep face of cracked and layered rock with its highest area facing in the direction of our house and then extending for half a mile in a line parallel to the road. Our Dad had explained previously about the role of the Ice Age in shaping our geographic area and why our spectacular little cliff remained for our enjoyment.
In the crevices of the rock face, where dew and falling rain could reach, there was moss, sprouting seedlings and a few sparse spring flowers. In late April and May, at the base of the Ledge and in its lower crevices, was a natural spring garden of wildflowers. First and most abundant were Mayflowers, some purple and some white. They were small and short-stemmed but when gathered in sufficient numbers they made beautiful fragrant bouquets.
There were mossy beds of purple violets, Jack-in-the-Pulpits, conspicuous with tall slender heads, and gaping mouths. From time to time we would find Lady Slippers, their bulbous bodies open and waiting for small prey. Another harbinger of spring were the little bobbing heads of bluets.
One of our favorites at that age was "Blood-Root," not for a distinctive odor or scent but because when squeezed it left a blood-red-orange stain on your fingers which was happily resistant to soap and water.
Our favorites as always were the Mayflowers, and we would race home with them to Mom who was ever pleased and grateful and would say, "Now, you boys must remember to take some to Mrs. Leach," and we promised, and we did.
In late summer and early fall when wild raspberries and blackberries ripened, we ventured further into the woods, a quarter mile or so beyond the Ledge, to a clearing where there had been a big fire many years ago and where now berry bushes thrived in scattered proliferation.
With Mother, we would arrive in a group, wearing our straw hats and bib overalls and fetching our individual pails and buckets, ready to pick the ripe juicy fruit. We boys ate as much as we put in our pails and by the time we turned for home our hands and faces were stained with berry juice.
The berries not consumed for supper or shortcake were sealed in glass canning jars and placed on shelves in the cellar along with the other fruits and vegetables that had been preserved throughout the summer in anticipation of the long winter months. The berries would provide a wintertime source for berry pie.
Mom would again remind us to save some for Mrs. Leach.
In winter when there was snow, we boys and our friends would clear out the lesser brush on the least hazardous northern slope of the Ledge and create a path of sorts down which we would ride our home-made Jack Jumpers.
These were boy-constructed contraptions using a purloined stave from a pickle barrel as a runner and an upright 10 or 12 inches long, braced front and back, with a board seat on top. Balancing oneself on one of these Jumpers while descending the bumpy and precipitous slope was attempted by all but mastered by few.
By virtue of being clad in long winter underwear, jackets, scarves, toques and mittens we were fortunate to limit our injuries to a few cuts and bruises. Cuts and bruises were expected for farm boys and, where lacerated, a smarting application of iodine would provide a temporary reminder to be more cautious in the future.
The Leach family, to whom we would take the Mayflowers and raspberries, owned the next farm up the road toward the village. There were no boys in the family: there was the father, Jay Leach, Mrs. Leach, and the three girls who were considerably older than we. They were bright and scholarly but not at all hesitant to put on overalls and rubber boots and help their father in the fields and around the barns.
Mrs. Leach was ebullient always and most appreciative of the Mayflowers and berries and she made certain that we took something home from her garden or kitchen. She always made a cake for our birthdays and knew the names of most of the plants and flowers in the local wild, and when she didn't she would patiently consult her little botany library.
The family was unique in the neighborhood. A card game was often in progress at the dinner table while they ate; in another room a chess board was permanently positioned and family members would stop by and make moves from time to time, sometimes taking days or weeks to finish a game.
We liked the ambience of their home as I remember it, casual, comfortable and used. There, we could invite ourselves over regularly, or when the periodical, "Boys Life," was due in the mail -- we were the only boys within a mile -- we didn't ask but I suspected it was just for us. They were like that. They gave brother Rich a brush- clearing job just before Christmas and he said it made no sense other than to earn him some Christmas money.
I would curl up comfortably in a big cushioned chair and read "Boys Life" from cover to cover. Before radio and television, reading was our greatest source of personal enjoyment and sometimes, I remember, I would make myself difficult to find by taking my book somewhere outside the range of human voices to read undisturbed until interrupted perhaps by brother Richard's complaint, "Ma, Paul's hiding again and it's time to go and get the cows."
I don't remember any specific conversations with Jay Leach because he was a big man and somewhat awesome in my sight. He possessed one attribute, however, that I have known in few others--and I shall remember it always. He had the unique ability to break wind with unparalleled resonance anywhere and in any company. Given an appropriate audience his valedictory was:
A farting horse will never tire;
A farting man is the man to hire.
Long Rest You in Peace, Good Neighbor.