Postcard Insights: Autumn in Vermont, via the Lens of Alois Mayer

This isn't a great day for me to make a road trip for foliage photos, but my late husband Dave's postcard collection can always fill in! Here, at the top, is a view of Jay Peak taken from a field of grazing cows in Newport (Vt.). Continuing the dairy theme, the middle card is an aerial view of Cabot, home of Cabot Creamery, surrounded by farms. The third (bottom) card shows Lake Memphremagog, looking from the north toward distant Willoughby Gap. The photos are probably from the 1980s, says Dave's note.

What intrigued me today is that all three cards feature photos by the same person: Alois Mayer. So of course I looked up the name, and found this in the Valley News from March 8, 2021:

BOMOSEEN, VT — Alois Mayer was born on March 23rd, 1938 and died on February 26th, 2021. He was raised in Maria Alm, Austria. Alois was the eighth of ten children of Sebastian and Katharina Mayer. As a young man, Alois was a ski instructor in Austria which led to his coming to America in 1963 at the age of 25 to work at Killington Mountain and eventually as the Ski School Director at Pico Peak for several years. Alois then focused his efforts into his considerable talent as a landscape photographer, selling his postcards and calendars across the State of Vermont for decades, through the business he founded Mayer Photo-Graphics, until his retirement.

Alois is survived by his two sons Jon and Kristian, his four grandchildren, his brothers Balthasar and Alexander, and his sister Susanne.

How remarkable! "Every picture tells a story" -- and this group of foliage photos led me to a very unexpected one. My sympathies to the family of this photographer, who has clearly made his mark in Vermont in at least two significant ways.

Poetry and September—My Time of Year

Summer in Vermont is a glorious time. But in August it flashes warnings of change—and just like when I was a kid eager for new clothes (that back-to-school treat), I feel September pushing toward me. It's harder to stay in the moment. Plans for the change of weather get scribbled, in notes here and there, and on the calendar.

I am more than two years out from the death of my husband Dave, and to most people who knew him, that probably feels like a very long time. For me, it's still a season of deep change, locating the parts of myself that "changed forever" in the years of our marriage, and figuring out how to do, solo, the things we so much enjoyed doing together. Moving to a new home is the most dramatic change in all this. But the emotional shifts are just as big.

That pushes me into poetry, day after day. Poetry and gardening are my anchors, the areas where I know growth will take place. (Historical research and writing the articles and novels related to that are good, too, but they are by definition less emotional, aren't they?)

One Day in Early August

 

One day in early August, a fresh wind out of September

swept out of the northwest and pulled me out the door, ready

not for frost or snow, but for relief—let the heat wave flee,

let the garden race toward golden melons and squash, let the birds

begin to gather and remind each other: We rise. We fly.

No longer courting or even nesting, but practicing for height.

 

And I? Despite the brisk air, I’m bound to stay, an old cap

pulled over my hair, a fresh swipe of mink oil over my boots—

my best memories wrapped around me like some familiar

thick sweater, like a snug zipped jacket, like (not yet) gloves.

This is the back road I’ve walked for years, tracking the leaves

in their bold thick greens then slow hint of gold, of crimson.

 

I saw a tuft of red leaves wave to the corn field;

a cluster of small purple asters, late-summer frills, danced.

Racoon scat I almost stepped on, and deer tracks, and scrapes

from eager turkey feet, from bears, til the low stone wall

interrupted—and a thicket of raspberries rose from rocks

that hid the tiny burying ground beyond. Like last night’s deer

 

I wedged my toes between the rocks; tiptoed up them

eyes on the red fruit; reached a cautious arm, fingers gentle

as a doe’s soft lip, teasing the swollen berries from the stems

too soft to carry away—quick to my mouth, sweet delight.

If you were waiting at home, babes, I’d find a way to carry

this to you: a photo, a song, a few protected sweets.

 

Berries from bones? Life from stones? I face a dozen winters,

maybe more, without the warm constant of my true love

at my side. Many things I do not understand, do not see

in the bright swift sunset and the tinted clouds, this edge

between the day and the star-pricked night. Hands in pockets,

tasting the fresh cold air, I call to you, wanting you to hear.

 

-- BK

A Picture Tells a Story With Heart

I love this image, which began with a photo I took a week ago inside the farm shop at the Langmaid farm in North Danville. You can see the rows of jellies and jams (I'll re-show, below, my other photo from that day, which shows the baked goods -- the donuts were flying out of there at 3 for a dollar).

And here are some parts of the story that come with the photo:

* North Danville, Vermont, is the location that inspired -- and really is the home of -- my 2011 mystery adventure THE SECRET ROOM. This little farm store is roughly where the imagined village store is, in the novel. And each time I'm in North Danville, I'm haunted by Shawna and Thea (from the novel) moving back and forth to each other's homes and discovering the secrets there.

* The jelly-jar labels include "Curtis Vance Memorial Orchard" as their first line. Curtis Vance lived in North Danville; he was a cousin of teacher and librarian Mary Prior, who insisted that I place a book in this place! The community that gathered around Curtis Vance during his long illness (familial ALS) was wide, deep, and loving. I enjoy seeing his name on the jars, even though I can't ever see him in person again.

* Autumn is my favorite season (is it yours, too?) -- my birthday is at the start of September, and I always have that "first day of school" excitement in my chest too. Most of all, I love the crispness, the scent of the air, the colors of the leaves, and the activities of harvest. "Putting food up" as jams, jellies, pickles, applesauce -- what could be a better statement of faith in the future?

* Last but not least, I just took a class (yes, you can take classes from home, when you're a writer who loves to be at her desk) on Pinterest (ultimate in "new" -- contrast with the eons-old skills of preserving foods!) and figured out how to add this blogsite as an insert on my photo. It's still a bit basic; I'll be better next week. But I'm happy to be learning, and joyful to open the window and smell Autumn, and -- full circle -- thinking quietly again about Curtis Vance and Mary Prior. Life passes, and we are fortunate to preserve some of the "good food" to sample again later.