I texted Mavis and asked if she had a fair amount of ground pork on hand. Indeed, she did, and would set it aside with my name on it. I was glad for a trip to Baldwin Brook and the slow meandering drive to get there. The stretch of road doesn’t offer much, which of course is what I love. You could stop at one of the two chainsaw shops along the way – Stihl or Husqvarna – depending on your pleasure, but other than that, it’s mostly just you and miles of stonewalls winding through the back roads of eastern Connecticut.
It was one of those drives that afforded more time inside my own head than was probably helpful, but maybe it’s good to be trapped in a car with the things you do not understand. Things that on the surface, I get the explanation of, but lack true understanding once filtered through the heart and conscience. And so, a prisoner to myself, I grappled with thoughts of why we do not provide seat belts for children on schoolhouses, the cruel irony of shooting water protectors with water cannons (in sub-freezing temperatures), emotionally driven tweets by our president-elect, farmers being forced to jump through multiple expensive hoops in order to legally sell meat, and how after 21 years of marriage your old love song makes little sense, so you wait until a new one finds its way… and it's worth the wait, because rookie love cannot own a song like this.
(Actually, that last part can be added to the short list of things I understand.)
Driving along, attempting to let go of current affairs and my inability to make sense of most things, my thoughts drift to a different time – some 200+ years ago – when 5,000 French troops led by Rochambeau marched this very road from Rhode Island to Old Wethersfield where General Washington waited, and upon their arrival, planned the final battle of the Revolutionary War with Rochambeau. Years prior, I’d stood in the very room this meeting took place, but at the time it did not occur to me to consider Rochambeau’s journey there (I’m somewhat familiar with Washington’s travels during that time). Recently however, a local historian shared with me the story of this road. According to his research, it took two days for the soldiers to pass through the area, and if one visualized the scene for only a moment, it is easy to understand such an event was likely the grandest, most ominous experience that folks living along the footpath would witness in their lifetime. Two straight days of troops passing through. He also explained the French troops were not without money, which prompted settlers to capitalize on the opportunity, selling produce, bread, shoes, and medicine up and down the route. While my understanding of war remains dubious, my imagination cannot resist dropping back to this moment in time, when traveling this road.
A lot happens on the road to the farm.
Lately I’ve had no idea what to write about because so many things seem hard right now, and it kind of sucks to write about hard things without the ability to wrap it up in a pretty bow of clear perspective at the end. Being on the other side is comfortable. You’d think at my age I would accept the discomfort, the lack of understanding, and could write my way through regardless. But I can’t, so I’ve been writing less and watching more. Speaking less and listening more. People will be hurt and sometimes they will heal. Injustices will occur but will not always prevail. There will be times when love wins, and times when it does not. There are many things I do not understand, and a few things that I do.
I pulled onto the dirt drive and made my way through the covered bridge; my order was in the farm store cooler, just as Mavis had promised. I grabbed some raw milk and a pack of country ribs, too, then placed my cash in the vintage saltine tin on the table. Back home, spices are gathered and the pork is combined with ground venison from the buck Adam brought home on opening day. Sausage is made and we’ve completed another step in filling the freezer. I guess that's one more thing I understand. Just look at how the list grows.