You CAN Go Home Again if You Dare ... in a Poem

Yesterday's road trip into the Upper Kingdom -- the part of the Northeast Kingdom north of Sheffield Heights -- was my third within five weeks. 

Which is a lot, for a region I've carefully stayed away from for years now. Call it dipping a toe back into the ice water. I might not want to go all the way in, at this time of year! (I'm not one of those Polar Bear Plunge folks. Give me a good book and a thick sweater instead.)

At the intended goal location of yesterday's trip, I met someone who'd been living less than 2 miles from my home in Irasburg at the time when I gave birth to my second son, in an uninsulated house on the ridge, facing a spectacular view of distant Jay Peak. It took 23 cords of split wood to heat that house for a winter. And it was actually 41 years ago, but that doesn't fit well into the line.

So here's the poem:

Road Trip

 

December settles into biting cold, and the snow-cased fields

spool past, low metal structures, unpainted houses.

This is where I lived back then, close to the northern border.

Only blink, and a battered green car from forty years back

could pass in the other direction, my young-mother self cooing

to the baby in the snowsuit. With icy chunks of split wood

jammed into the Subaru’s flattened cargo hold, not enough

warmth even as the heater cranks, full on. “Home soon,

sweetheart.” Inside my patched jacket, past my blue sweater,

under the long-sleeved T, breastmilk leaking in anticipation

quick-chilling along my chest. One-third cord of firewood,

five days of heat for the house, maybe six. After lunch,

do it again—lucky to buy six cords with cash. The pale sun

sets early in December. That year’s best Christmas gift was

the slow cooker: It didn’t need to be watched or touched

until, baby nursed, diaper changed, husband hungry,

beef stew was ready. With food stamps, I always got

the cheapest cut of meat.

Not Every Poem Will Be a Great One ... but Still ...

Tis the season -- poetry classes have resumed, and I'm awake in a new way. Yes, the brisk November air helps, and so does the temporary end of garden labor. But to spend hours with a gifted teacher, being shown what works, what makes a poem strong, vibrant, joyful or tragic -- that's a whole other kind of awakening, and I'm thriving with it.

There are "exercises" after each class, and they've become my favorite homework. Sometimes they lead me to write poems that I'm really excited about, leaps in skill that mean a lot. At other times, like today, I step onto uncertain ground, and craft a "first try" that's heartfelt but not yet powerful. And yet, I love this stage, too: reminiscing, trying to pull out strands that (if the last class is anything to go by) will in turn pull up other feelings and images, and in a week or so, I will make a new discovery.

For today, I figured I'd write about missing my mother. It's a normal part of life to have one's parents die —we don't like it, but it's part of how time works. My mother died when I was just 28, heavily pregnant with my second child. I would have loved more years with her, but ... it didn't turn out that way.

Still, I hold her close.

Singing Your Songs

 

Clementine and “Wait for the Wagon,” ballads and longing

and lullabyes—after your sudden death, I searched

the secondhand stores for a copy of your book, Mom:

American folk songs. Jeannie with light brown hair. Old Smoky.

Lines that rhymed and endings sweetly certain.

 

In the key of C, you’d lift each tune till Dad could not resist:

his deep rumble, half a note off, happily sharing the car’s front seat.

Down by the old mill stream. John Henry. “In the evening

by the moonlight,” music that once soothed raw throats, tended

sore bodies, beside long-ago fields. If a mother sang it,

 

or a worker made it ring out freedom, you did, too. No regrets.

No holding back. You made your choices (a man, some babies),

planted black-eyed Susans, pressed tiny purple wildflowers

between the soft pages of old phone books, taught us all the verses

though I needed the book afterward, so many words. So many.

 

Sing with me now? Death’s still the same, four decades on.

I miss you, Mom; I’m walking with all of your songs.

 

-- BK

North Danville Family Stories, Updates, Corrections, and Additions from Gerard Lamothe, October 5, 2022

 Many thanks to Gerard W. Lamothe of North Danville, who provided the following material:

Now I Know What It Is -- What It Lives Like

One of my earliest stories.

I started to "write" -- that is, to put writing in front of everything else, no matter what kind of writing, and in the beginning it was reporting for a little weekly "shopper" newspaper -- I started at age 22, while I was still working as a chemist in New Jersey and living with R, the man who'd become my second husband.

In that first breathless savoring of writing-by-choice, instead of writing for school or writing work reports, what exhilaration I found! Nothing else mattered as much. Fortunately for my partner and my income, at that point I wrote something once a month for the paper. Life could go on, in between.

Poems, those were different. I grew up writing poems; my mother wrote them, not the deep kind but the happy rhyming ones that were for children or to enliven an evening party. By 1972, when I graduated from college, I'd write a poem any time; if I liked you, I'd give you a poem. I didn't revise. I didn't re-think. I didn't think a whole lot, really, just scribbled them down. Thanks, Mom.

In 1996 I wrote The Adventure Guide to Vermont, for a plain fee, for Hunter Publishing; the editor said "it's your book" but it was work-for-hire in my life.

Then a Vermont novel seized me, and I wrote The Darkness Under the Ice, was told I'd written the wrong book, and started over, writing The Darkness Under the Water (published in 2008). With that, I discovered the heady sensation of creating characters and their world, and marveled that in one day, something came alive that hadn't existed before.

But I'll tell you now -- it was always Work. Triumphant when done, but ... Work.

What would it be like to be obsessed, compelled, by something I was writing? To breathe it in, around the clock? To find my life's core, the way I did when I found DK and gave him my heart and received his?

Now I know.

I'm writing a book that is always on my tongue and in my pulse. At night I turn the bedside light back on, to write a note about something for the next chapter. In the morning, I am impatient with breakfast and dishes and ordinary earning a living, because I have more notes all over my desk and they all involve what I will write when a pocket of time opens, later today or early tomorrow. (I meet commitments to others, before I indulge.)

It's waiting for me. I miss my DK, of course, always. But he'd understand what is happening, probably better than I do, and if there's a sort of post-life cheering section, he's standing at the front of it, pounding the air with a fist, and singing something by Arethra. He really loved Arethrea. Also Alicia Keys. I'll tell you about that, some other time.

Right now, there's a new segment waiting to be written, and I'm in love.

PS Don't expect me to vacuum in the corners. As I said: There's a new segment waiting. https://bethkanell.medium.com/

Poem after Poem ... on a Blue-Sky Day in July

Last night just before I dug into my late-night reading, an email arrived, accepting three of my poems for the summer 2023 issue of Soul-Lit Magazine. What a wonderful gift to the evening! 

And today, "Do the Next Right Thing" was published beautifully in As It Ought To Be Magazine (https://asitoughttobemagazine.com/2022/07/26/beth-kanell-do-the-next-right-thing). Talk about glowing with joy!

It reminded me that I should explain something new in what I'm doing. Day upon day, I'm writing poems as I find the language for feelings and experiences that matter to me, some light-hearted, some discovering new parts of the grief journey (more than 3 years now since Dave died). And many, of course, celebrating this place: high on a ridge in northeastern Vermont, listening to the wind, the birds, and an occasional neighbor in action.

But I'm not always putting the poems out publicly right away (like, on Facebook or this blog), because it's my season to reach for wider groups of readers. Most of the publications that I'm sending poems to have a rule: It can't have been published (even on Facebook) before their chance to present it.

Since the poems aren't reaching you "as written," you might look at one and think it describes "today," when actually it began a year ago, was rewritten and revised "about 50 times" (as Donald Hall described it), and then crept out under cover of darkness to make a new friend.

So I thought I might give you something quite fresh from the writing desk this week. A lot of friends, and friends of friends, are going through the newest round of Covid variants. Sick for a few days, and then miserable for a few weeks afterward, drained. I ache for them (and know one of these days it will probably be my turn, too). This is called VARIANT, and now you know why:

Variant

 

Crawling through the long pandemic

death’s come closer than it used to:

masked, vaxed, boosted, still we shiver

at the risk—strange and incalculable as

the meteors crossing the night. Raw beauty

like the sequenced chain of DNA

potent and seeking.

 

Thanks for walking with me, friends. See you here again soon. -- BK 

When We Make It to Autumn -- Book Celebrations Ahead

It's a hot muggy July afternoon, with intermittent thunderstorms. Everyone's taking photos of butterflies lately, and I just received my first bag of "extra" zucchini squash. Double chocolate zucchini bread and a cheesey zuke casserole will follow, this evening.

But as I tend the yard and gardens, tiny crickets hop out of the way, then dive under the greenery. At night, their chirps have replaced the peepfrogs as music in the darkness. And for me, that's the first reminder: Vermont's glorious autumn is not far away.

And it's going to be an incredible October for my writing.

 

Last year's release of THIS ARDENT FLAME, the second in my Winds of Freedom historical novels series, dropped into the hush of the pandemic -- no book launch, no events, no readers jumping into the pages. So this fall I'm re-launching the book. I'll be at the Pope Library in Danville on Saturday October 10. Then at NVU-Lyndon for Kingdom Connect on October 4, and with bookseller Kim Crady-Smith, I'll be in North Danville for a 7 pm book talk at the Brainerd Memorial Library on Thursday October 13. (More dates to follow!)

I'm eager to share the surprises I discovered about Vermont's thriving Abolition movement in 1852 -- and about "free black" residents here at that time. Plus, of course, there's the excitement of the novel itself!

Believe it or not, I have a SECOND book launch to savor this year -- Lilith Magazine's new short story collection, Frankly Feminist: Short Stories by Jewish Women from Lilith Magazine. My story in the collection is "What Was Cut," and it uses bits from my life as a La Leche League Leader, a person in 12-Step recovery, and a rededicated Jewish family member. I think you'll appreciate the spooky edge that it carries!

Watch here for more announcements ... September 4 is already booked for my poem "Sundown Psalm" in Amethyst Review, and some time in August, As It Ought To Be Magazine is publishing another of my poems, "Do the Next Right Thing." 

Come on, crickets, keep chirping!

North Danville Family Stories: Updates from Gerard Lamothe, July 5, 2022

There are so many details in each story about our families and our pasts, and sometimes people don't see the details in the same way. Although two of the people interviewed for my 2022 North Star Monthly article on North Danville went over the manuscript before I turned it in -- because I was aware that the connections were complicated and the photos a generation or two way from us -- Gerard Lamothe found that the final article didn't fit what he meant to say, and he expressed some doubts about what others told me.

Here are Gerry's notes of correction; he says his own speaking style may have led to many of the confused items from his own research.

"Original dam at the bottom ... flood of '27." Gerry says North Danville's big flood took place in 1897 instead. The dam was rebuilt after 1897.

bridge ... sawmill: Gerry says this was the gristmill, not sawmill, and related  bridge, also severely damaged in 1897. He notes that Arthur Sanborn bought both the dam and the gristmill so he could use both dams to run his sawmill.

He wants to make it clear that Aunt Addie was his great-aunt.

The image of the blacksmith shop and triplet houses: Gerry emphasizes that General Chamberlain was one of several early settlers, although he was the first in the village. He refers to a Tennie Toussaint article.

Gerry thinks the name McFarland was used without a D.

Rather than banning both dancing and billiards, he says the band was against both dancing and cards.

The bell mentioned, he clarifies, was a handbell.

Gerry says Arthur Sanborn's house is not in the photo; the unpainted building is the blacksmith shop, and the white Cape-style house belonged to Elgin Gates. Arthur Sanborn built his house on the former site of the blacksmith shop.

Gerry says Arthur bought the sawmill and Elgin's shop and home, and the dance hall, a building just below Elgin's blacksmith shop.

Gerry says the house was not sheathed in brick, but in wood.

Where Arthur's brother is mentioned, Gerry said that should be brother-in-law, Addie's brother Al.

Gerry says the lunches carried by Addie were not for the workers but for the students.

Gerry says Addie owned the mill and ran it with the help of Charles Sanborn.

Gerry believes Arthur's passion focused on the second mill (Walden Mountain) after he sold his own mill.

Gerry corrects the shooting of Charles in the leg, saying it took place instead in the ballroom at his house.

Gerry says Addie's sense of propriety affected the driving lessons of daughter Louella, not of Sharon.

Gerry corrects the dance hall shooting to take place at the Sanborn dance hall.

Gerry believes the mill pond did not rise to dangerous levels; instead, those waters came from the other dam by the town shed and the third dammed pond.

Gerry corrects the mention of poor flooring, saying it was to be put into the new school, not the old one.

Gerry's description of the outhouses was intended to say "limed," not "lined."

Charles was Arthur's uncle, not brother, Gerry says.

Gerry says that Elgin's blacksmith shop was built on the site of an earlier store, and that the store photo shown is not the Weeks store.

This page of Gerry's corrections should be considered in future historical writing about North Danville village.

Writing to Save the World: A Project With My Grandsons

Broken shell (at left) and label from my blessedly optimistic sister-in-law Cheryl.

My grandsons' mother is doing a great job getting her sons educated, and each youngster is moving to a new school in the fall. This careful parent is already thinking about college as the long-term goal for her sons, and she's brought me into the process this summer because she wants them to write more often and with more attentiveness.

They travel in summer, which raises the challenges -- but of course, thanks to the pandemic, we have all learned to cope with that sort of distance. So the boys and I are writing something each week on a topic that I propose (although I'm open to them raising a topic; for now, they prefer that Grandma does this).

This week, I offered the website https://www.oceanoptimism.org, which I learned about through an On Being podcast. I thought it provided a good change from the doom and disaster we've all been discussing -- and the boys did, too. Each one wrote a really good piece on why we can harbor optimism about cleaning up our oceans. Each also indicated some level of personal commitment. They "get" why we are all trying to reduce our use of plastics, for instance, and they are "on it."

The same day I offered that challenge, I also received an email from Seth Godin that included promotion for his Carbon Almanac -- subtitled "It's Not Too Late." I think that's what we-who-want-to-save-the-planet need to internalize: Our choices matter, need to take place now, and are effective.

Here's the piece I wrote with the boys. I'd proudly share what the grandsons wrote, but ... that's THEIR writing, and they'll find their own way to share it. (That will have to be a topic for the end of the summer.)

Hope this gives you a boost today.

When I first heard about the #OceanOptimism tag and website, I felt skeptical. Ocean pollution seems so out of control! And every time I purchase a piece of fish to eat, the price reminds me that there is a crisis in ocean fish, as desperate as the crisis of America's western lands burning (not to mention the fires in Italy). With such a global sense of catastrophe, does optimism make any sense at all? Then I looked at the "tweets" that are tagged with #OceanOptimism, and other things came to mind. For example, one of the featured items right now quotes a scientist who is successfully bringing about change. She reminds us: "Take advantage of the unexpected. Trust your intuition. Learn to tell your story. Don't neglect the positive." None of those are spoken often by the people around me, but they reflect the best moments of my life, the times when I've felt that I enabled good results among people and organizations. They remind me also of the work of business guru Seth Godin (I learned about his work from my son Kiril), whose new Carbon Almanac is subtitled "It's Not Too Late." I learned from his writing, and from some examples around me, that people are capable of enormous amounts—if you help them to focus on their strengths and celebrate their achievements. Go positive ... go with optimism. Let's help our oceans recover.

-- With love from Grandma

The Covered Bridges of Lyndonville, Vermont

Lyndonville, a few miles north of where I live, is having a renaissance of sorts. As usual, this one grows from the energy and determination of a few individuals able to light up more -- "Revamp the Ville" is the new slogan. I like it!

So it's a pleasure to see this article in the Caledonian-Record this week describing the planned Sanborn Covered Bridge Riverfront Park (tap images to see larger versions):

 

And with that, here are three covered bridge images from Dave Kanell's postcard and photo collection of the Northeast Kingdom. (There are five covered bridges still standing in the town.)

DK's research notes on this first image say Sanborn Covered Bridge (the one that the park will feature), Lyndon Center, photograph circa 1940s.

The second image, wrote DK, is the Burrington or Randall Covered Bridge (it's had both names), and the postcard was mailed in 1957.

The third is marked "Lyndon Center, Vt" on the back, and DK's notes say the photo is circa 1950s of the Miller's Run Covered Bridge.

Covered bridges have been essential for farmers in our area, as they enabled horses to pull loads safely across rivers. (In my book THE BITTER AND THE SWEET, July 2023, they enter the story often.) It takes a lot of determination to keep them standing after the horse era, so kudos to Lyndonville for this important effort.

A Photo of Gracie's Hotel, Lyndonville: As Promised!

Last month I was honored to present a talk on writing historical fiction for the DKG VT (active and retired teachers), Northeast Kingdom section, meeting in Lyndonville. I promised to try to locate an image of Gracie's Hotel for one of the people at the meeting.

And here it is! By way of explanation, here's what my husband Dave (the true Lyndon expert in the family) wrote about it, on April 11, 2018:

Looking Around Lyndonville, Vermont Today: Postcard circa 1950?. The sign on the building says "HOTEL LYNDONVILLE"

To the left of the building and over the door way is another sign that says "RESTAURANT" At this point of time the hotel was owned and managed by Nap. G. Clements who was from Montreal. ( I wonder if the NAP was shortened for the name Napoleon.) The second image is an advertisement from the 1957 edition of the Vermont Year Book/Walton's Register.

The hotel had 30 bedrooms. The Sportman's Room and The Casbah Lounge (A Replica of an Egyptian Tent)

The Hotel advertised in the Lyndon Teachers Yearbooks in 1953, 1954 and 1958.

Over the years the Hotel had many names: *The Pleasant View House * Centennial House * Union House * Chase's Hotel, * and Gracie's Inn. On line someone wrote that the Hotel burned to the ground on June 3, 1969 and another person gave the year the Hotel burned down as 1967.

This is a winter scene. The hotel was located in the vicinity of where the Union Bank now stands. 

 

DKG folks, please do pass the word on this! 

 

Doing author talks often opens up fresh historical research for me. Glad we can all share this.

Passumpsic Photos Lasting a Century—and More (Ernest Skinner)

The other day I pulled out a cardboard folder labeled "SKINNER Postcards Passumpsic," to delve into the images DK* collected that were photographed by Ernest F. Skinner, a farmer who lived a few miles south of St. Johnsbury in the Barnet village of Passumpsic.

DK provided several notes on the most formal image—one that was clearly marketed as a postcard, with a line down the center of its reverse, and the two sides of the line labeled "This Space for Correspondence" and "This Space for Address." The photo on the front is helpfully labeled "Passumpsic, Vermont" and "Ernest F. Skinner, Barnet History, 1923." That snippet that says "Barnet History" indicates Mr. Skinner provided his photo to Frederick Palmer Wells for use in the massive volume of town history.

The covered bridge is obvious in the photo, along with the prosperity of this little village at the time. DK noted that Ernest F. Skinner (1885-1978) was a farmer in Passumpsic and had become a naturalized citizen of the United States in March 1922. His wife was Nellie M. Skinner, 1866-1965.

There are many postcard-size images today that indicate that Vermonters in the 1920s, and probably for a decade before that, enjoyed having their portraits or home portraits turned into cards that they could mail at low cost. Mr. Skinner clearly expected the photos he prepared of his village and adjacent East Barnet to be shared. It's likely that local shops sold them.

This image is labeled "Cobbler Shop Tea Room Passumpsic, Vt." and I remember when DK and I were tracking it down. He dates the card to 1920 with a mention of "4 Squares." His notes add that the house, owned in 2018 by Jeremy and Roxanne Roberts, is next to the one then owned by Craig Beck.

There are two copies of the next image, differing a bit in how dark they are. I like the evidence of local historians collaborating, since DK's first note attached says "Paul Chouinard says this in an Ernest F. Skinner Photo." It shows the wooden covered bridge in Passumpsic, built in 1898. The bridge was destroyed by the Great Flood of Nov. 3-4, 1927, and DK notes there were 1285 bridges lost in that flood. "Looking South, Passumpsic River Bridge 1898, Passumpsic, Vermont. Looking closely at the farm house on the top of Mill Hill. In 2000 the house and large barn were still present. (Info Bruce Filgate)" says DK's added note, crediting another local historian.

Among the notes connected with this Skinner photo of the East Barnet covered bridge is a printed scrap without the source: "This is a photograph of the East Barnet covered bridge over the Passumpsic river which was taken out by the flood of 1927. Note the elevation of the bridge over the river which provides a reference point regarding the height of the raging flood waters during the flood of 1927. It started raining on the evening of November 2, 1927 and by the time the rain ended on November 4th, nine inches of rain had fallen in a 36 hour period. The ground was already saturated from heavy rains during the month of October and was not capable of absorbing mo[r]e moisture. The damage from flooding was devastating to all of the towns and villages located along the Passumpsic river."

This next Skinner image is of those flood waters. The photographer's caption reads "Passumpsic Vt. Nov. 4, 1927" and DK notes that the image is included in the book "Lights and Shadows" on page 56, labeled "The Uncontrolled Flood Waters at Passumpsic."

The flood did more than tear out the bridge—it also wrecked the train station and rail lines. Mr. Skinner's photo postcard is marked "Flood Nov. 4, 1927, Passumpsic, Vt." I wonder how the milk was moved, while both the river and the rail were impasssible.

For another perspective on the damage, here is the depot itself; look closely to see the footings washed away. Mr. Skinner's label is "C.P.R. [Canadian Pacific Railway] Depot, Passumpsic Vt. Flood Nov. 4, 1927."

This very full image is marked "Passumpsic, Vt. #2" by the photographer. DK's note reminds us that it shows the village corner on Route 5. He describes the card as a Velox (an image created by adding a screen to a photo), dating it to 1907-1914. Paul Chouinard has written about the store at this corner and the nearby residents, from his experience growing up in the village in the 1950s.

Inspect "The Ferry Passumpsic Vt. Apr. 25, 1928 (card number) 41" and see the 10-gallon milk cans crossing the river; the ferry operator is using a cable to pull the flat-bottom vessel along. DK points out the engine and railroad freight cars in the card also, and commented that the ferry is "listing or tilting." The milk cans prompted him to add notes on the Passumpsic Creamery, operated by the Passumpsic Creamery Association, M. K. Bruce, Mgr; operations were 1879-1964. A second note mentions Mountain View Creamery in the area's 1930 directory, with J. J.  Richie Mgr.; O. [Ollie] B. Exley was the foreman in West Barnet [his daughter was teacher Miss Karlene Exley—BK].

I'm glad to have taken time to type up DK's notes and present these cards. I anticipate more Passumpsic Village history from Paul Chouinard in the future.

*DK is my late husband David Kanell -- as he would ink in, 1952-2019.

Telling the Story: "Narrative Therapy," the Arc of Narrative, and Long Grief

[Not a riddle.] How do you know when your relationship really, really matters?

[Answer.] You'll know after it's over.

Telling the story of a partner's death is a necessity for a while. For me, it helped make sense of the drastic changes in my life, the rainstorm of sorrow, and the questions that pop up. Like, did I do everything I could? From the person that I am, that is?

A year and a half after Dave's death, which was expected but no less tragic, I found myself stuck on a very big decision that only I could make. Sell the big wonderful house where we'd spent most of our married time, in order to move into something small and more affordable? Or do everything else possible to hold onto it, from renting out the garage to hosting an air b'n'b to endless garage sales and round-the-clock work schedules?

Each option involved pain. Neither guaranteed relief from grieving, either.

When I realized I was "deciding" twice a day, frantically flipping from one choice to another -- and I am a person who usually has no problem making decisions -- I searched online for a counselor who could pitch in. It was the first autumn of Covid, which for me yielded a very specific blessing: therapy via Zoom meetings. No commute time wasted, no problems with road conditions, and no need to leave the house empty, either. (I was starting to feel as worried about any time away from the house, as I had felt about time away from Dave as his health slid, and slid, and slid. I didn't want him to face fear alone. And I didn't want the house to be damaged by any absence.)

My life is framed in stories: written, told, present, past, truth and decorative. To my utter astonishment and amusement, the counselor prescribed "narrative therapy." I'd never heard of it but it seemed "genius" for a novelist ... When I looked it up, here's what I found:

Narrative therapy is a style of therapy that helps people become—and embrace being—an expert in their own lives. In narrative therapy, there is an emphasis on the stories that you develop and carry with you through your life. (Jodi Clarke, MA, LPC/MHSP)

It Worked

 

Within a month I'd reached a decision I could live with (sell the house, tackle the huge challenge of taming an abandoned piece of land nearby, create a new home). I knew a lot more, too, about what factors in my life were driving my decisions, and which ones were constantly causing me pain. I discovered that I could stop pressing down hard on the inevitable wound of grief and loss, and breathe a bit better as a result.

Because stories ARE my life, eventually I started to play with the narrative arc -- oh, if that's not a familiar term, check out the MasterClass article on these. Here are the parts of the narrative arc that the the article describes:

1.  Exposition: The reader’s introduction to the story, providing background information to prime the audience.
2. Rising action. This usually begins with a triggering event that puts the story in motion.
   
3. Climax.The highest point of tension in the storyline, often forcing the main character to face a truth or make a huge decision.
4. Falling action. The conflict gives way toward resolution.
5. Resolution. This is not always happy, but shows how the events of the story have changed the characters and the world around them.

How could I fit that idea to the stage of my life opening up -- that is, surviving without Dave? If my decision to let go of the house was stage 3 of the narrative arc, was everything after this "falling action"? Just aging in place, alone? Look out, I could weep over that, pretty easily.

Even worse, maybe I was in the resolution part. What a terrible thought! All the good parts of the story were done, and I could "look forward" to simmering grief in solitude, with nothing much changing again, because the changes were done.

Another Approach

Although I'm not "seeing" the counselor as often, I rely on her backup. And in this case, she reminded me about something we'd outlined together, a year ago. Brace for it: I have a team. And on my team (I may have foreshadowed that I'm a nerd, didn't I? in some ways??) are the books and characters that I embrace. Sometimes that's George Smiley; sometimes Rivers in the Regeneration Trilogy; sometimes Katniss, or even (and in another medium) Phryne Fisher. There are more. 

A few weeks ago, the counselor reminded me to lean on my team.

So I opened a few books in a row, and found one divided into PARTS. Three of them. Each part had its own arc of narrative. And none of them functioned without the others.

This is what I've chosen for my narrative today:

Part I: Life before meeting Dave. Adventurous but with some serious lacks.

Part II: Life with Dave. Not always easy, including his illness, but omigosh varieties of fun and a resolution that let me see how much I changed, how much his life reshaped mine and strengthened me.

Part III: Life with Dave out of reach. He'll never stop being present as a force in the next part of the character arc. (And missing him won't end.) But there are chapters ahead, and I am not at "the end."

As the expression goes, "That's my story." For today.

When Love Overflows in the Northeast Kingdom

Paul and Bernadette Berthiaume Chouinard

Look at the greatest love stories that your English teacher pointed to: Romeo and Juliet. Casablanca. Wuthering Heights. If you are hearing a bit of sad music as you reflect on these, you're not alone.

True love, in real life, however, rarely steps onto the stage or the movie screen. It persists through challenges, and it overflows in ways that brighten and enrich the lives around it.

A ready example of how this works: Bernadette and Paul Chouinard, of Vermont's Northeast Kingdom.

Duchess, Paul, Duke.

This gracious couple celebrated 51 years of marriage this week. In addition to parenting and grandparenting with determination and grace, they continue to add to the richness of life in this region. Bernadette posts Facebook images of artfully plated meals she prepares, with the clear intent of nourishing both spirit and body. Paul retrieves images of the region's history and posts them in several Facebook forums that celebrate growing up here and the strong and creative people who've shaped the Kingdom. He annotates them with history from his own research, as well as a wider scope from his career as a teaching historian. 

Retirement is a fullness for this couple, rather than an emptying. Each day, they promote beauty and the ability to treasure what others have built, whether in the momentary beauty of a flower or the enduring resonance of architecture and photographed celebrations.

Paul and Bernadette treasure their Shih Tzu dogs, who are their babies now, curling on their laps, trotting around the lakeside home, and riding carefully along on automobile excursions. "Duke" and "Duchess" enjoyed a loving relationship with each other, as well as with their people.

So it was a terrible, heart-breaking shock when Duchess abruptly died on February 9. Nothing had prepared the Chouinards for such a drastic change. Most of all, they worried about Duke — how could he understand and how would he adapt to the absence of his small, sturdy companion?

There seemed no time to lose in finding a comfort for Duke. And when Paul asked online for word of another Shih Tzu to enter their home, blessings in the form of people who love pets came forward right away -- the next day, young Scarlet entered the family. As Paul explained, "She is not a replacement for Duchess, who will always be in our hearts. She will help to heal our pain and to reduce Duke’s anxiety."  

Duke, Bernadette, Scarlett

Small reports of the interactions of the two dogs -- who wagged a tail, who ate or refused to eat, who slept or could not sleep -- followed. And on the second day of Scarlet's presence, this report came:

"Duke seems to have experienced a day of mixed emotions. There are times when it is clear that he is looking for Duchess and feels confused by her absence. He did not eat this morning and was lethargic for a large part of the day. He and Scarlet have done well in adjusting to one another. They are respectful of one another and they are good about sharing their time and attention with each of us. We have been very aware of Duke's emotional struggle and we have given him lots of love."

The two little dogs were there as Bernadette and Paul marked 51 years of marriage on Sunday. Their most recent year held health challenges for both adults, as well as the tragedy of Duchess's passing. As Paul reflected on 51 years ago, he wrote, "We were married at the Church of the Nativity in Swanton, Vt, by Bernadette's cousin, Father Spear. It was a memorable event for many reasons. Our wedding took place in the midst of a major ice storm. We survived that challenge and many others related to our wedding and emerged as a married couple. Bernadette has been a major blessing in my life and in the life of our family. This past year, given the incredible health challenges that I faced, I would not have survived without her loving care. She has been a wonderful wife, mother, teacher, daughter and friend to all who are fortunate to know her. This week has been a particularly challenging week for both of us with the loss of our beloved Duchess and the adjustment for Duke with the acquisition of our new baby, Scarlet. Once again, we are weathering the 'storm.' I feel confident that with Bernadette's love and support we will emerge from it."

 

Bernadette marked the weekend of long-term romance — from wedding to mutual support to today's Valentine celebration — with a love-themed raspberry pie for Sunday's dinner.

As we who receive the daily Facebook photos and writings from the Chouinards continue to marvel at the beauty they infuse into their lives and those of the "babies" in their laps, I'm reminded of a "proverb" from the great writer William Blake: "The cistern contains; the fountain overflows."

Clearly, the Chouinards continue to craft a fountain of love. May this next year be an easier one, with many friends to appreciate the love they share. 

R.I.P., Duchess -- well loved.