It was one of the first warm days of
a resurgent spring and I was exploring a rural Vermont roadless area in the
foothills of Mount Hunger. My interest arose when I came across an old apple
tree, wild and unkempt and seemingly lost; in the middle of “nowhere.” Such aged and neglected relics, noticeable
from a distance with their showy white blossoms almost always signaled the
presence of a farmhouse nearby. Moving closer, a mad growth of blackberry and
sumac led me to the stone-lined foundation of a long-abandoned pioneer home in
the midst of a young forest of maple and birch, reclaiming the hard-scrabble
farmland of a lost generation.
Exploring the bramble-filled root
cellar where once baskets of fall apples and newly-dug Green Mountain potatoes
had once kept company with shelves of home-made jams and preserves, the
fire-scarred evidence now mixed with the detritus of the collapsed floor above.
A strange sadness filled my thoughts as I lay full length on the sun-warmed
slates of the carefully-laid foundation wall. I may have slumbered, for I could
swear I heard young voices raised in song with the strings of a poorly-tuned
fiddle in the background, and I held in my mind a picture of a hopeful young
family tied together by prayer and hope, perhaps – I thought – with
wheat-colored hair and eyes of Scandinavian blue. And I dared to hope they had
all escaped the fire which had robbed them of their dreams so long ago.
Another time I was wandering the
approaches from the town of Henefer to the entrance to East Canyon – the route
Brigham Young was following at the suggestion of mountain man Jim Bridger -- as
he led the armies of immigrants which would follow into the Great Salt Lake
Valley. I found what I had been looking for: the deep ruts left behind by the
thousands of wagons and hand carts which had left their imprint in a narrow
cleft they had been forced to traverse. In my effort to get closer to all the
history sculpted into those weather-worn and time-hardened human “epitaphs,” I
lay down full length in contact with them.
I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to travel backward in time,
considering the mixture of feelings those travelers must have experienced with
one life left forever behind them and the great unknown which lay in the one still ahead. I could almost feel the
earth shake with the vibration of a moving host, and hear the creaking of tired
wagon beds and the shouts of the children walking behind and the drivers talking
and shouting to animals by which so much had been given and upon which so much
still rested. Their voices were neither still nor small.
Most years I have a particular focus
as a subject for exploration and photography. Over many years it has been light
houses, lobster boats, old barns, stone walls, maple sugaring, gardens and
gardeners, covered bridges, cheese-making, etc., etc.. One year I devoted my
photography to the architecture and beauty of old New England churches, working
with a large-format camera which required careful timing and planning. One
beautiful white, tall-steepled example in a picturesque Vermont town presented
several challenges as I arrived after a long drive. To capture the best view
and composition while minimizing the intrusion of overhead power lines, I would
have to wait 2-3 hours for the sun angle to be favorable. Like so many such old
communities a large green “common” occupied the town’s center, around which the
church and elementary school buildings fit in perfectly with large two-storied
white-painted century-old family residences. I pulled off and parked under the
shade of old elm trees where my presence would be nearly invisible and
certainly anonymous. As I sat there in the autumn quiet, my nap was interrupted
by the voices of happy children. There, maybe fifty yards away a dozen young
school children were jumping amid squeals of delight from the lower branches of
a conveniently-placed maple tree into a huge pile of raked fall leaves. In the
distance a school bell rang and in moments the town green was empty and quiet.
Quiet that is but for a still small voice that spoke just to me. “Why
not!” it asked.
For the next fifteen wonderful
minutes I was a “school kid” once again, the big camera and all my cares
forgotten and far away. “There, you see. Didn’t that feel good” the
voice whispered. Or perhaps it was just the rustling of the maelstrom of leaves
covering me.
“You have to be
available to the invisible voices that are swirling around you.” George C. Wolfe
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