Sermons

A Bottle of Autumn

Last time I wrote anything, Megan and I were enjoying the riot of colors in a Vermont autumn. We moved a little south after a week nestled on our mountainside with the stream careening down the hill beside us. We found a nice spot with some sun, and service (if we climbed a steep hill in the woods).

We were supposed to be hosting a camping/hiking weekend for Indigenous People’s day. My sisters, Nema and P, were going to meet us with maybe a niece or nephew. The two Heathers were also going to join us. The weather took a turn. It was dreary and cold. One day didn’t get above 40 and it rained all day. We went for an explore in Henry to be warm. Then, later in the afternoon, we set up the diesel heater for the Springbar tent. It was luxurious. We read the dreary afternoon away in the warm tent. The weather forecast was calling for three days of snow. So we called off the weekend. The forest road we were on is not maintained in the winter, and we didn’t want anyone getting stuck up there. The two Heathers did come and spend one night with us. They built out the bed of the Other Heather’s pickup with two platform beds over the wheel wells and little aisle between them. We had a lazy morning, waiting for the dew to dry off the tent. We packed up slowly. It was a futile effort trying to make sure we didn’t pack up any dead leaves in the tent. They blew onto the tent as fast as we could sweep them away.

My mom and dad were kind enough to put us up again. We got a job doing fall clean up for the same people for whom we painted all summer. We raked and bagged leaves and hauled them to the landfill. I have to tell you I am a soft touch. I had moral wavering in my mind as I raked. I questioned my character and ethics. Do you know that leaf litter from one tree will hold hundreds and hundreds of gallons of rainwater? Then releases it slowly back into the earth to replenish the water table instead of releasing it in one big dump to just runoff to the sea? One of the main reasons we are seeing a decrease in firefly activity, besides light pollution, is because firefly larva overwinter in leaf litter, but we mulch them up or rake them up and haul them to the landfill. I don’t even like caterpillars, oh they make me feel squeamish and my skin feels creepy-crawly, but I felt like a horrible human being raking all the someday moths, butterflies, and fireflies away. Newts and toads and numerous other critters sleep away the frost and snow, snug under the leaves which release heat as they decompose. As I scooped up the piles we raked, especially from the near the stonewalls and tree line, I was careful to watch for the already sluggish newts I had awakened. I let them scatter before I scooped up the leaves. Many slugs went into the leaf and lawn bags. I hope they found their kin in the big leaf pile at the landfill. I hope they survived. Capitalism, man, destroying a million worlds, big and small for the god in a dollar.

We spent several days at The Other Heather’s old farmhouse, building something to hold our new solar panel. We tried one way by building a shelf off the ceiling of the cap. But that didn’t work out. So the next time we went over, we took it all out and studied the back of Henry, discussing alternatives. We built a very slim platform in the bed of the truck, one and quarter inch tall. It’s just tall enough to slide the solar panel wrapped in a moving blanket under. I, then, have to tie it to one of Henry’s tie down anchors so it doesn’t slide towards the cab of the truck. It’s pretty sweet. The only issue I have now is that my propane can’t slide into its spot without hitting the lip of the cap. It’s not that big of a deal to tilt it under the lip- except then I have to move two of my water jugs out of the way. These are just small inconveniences I will probably forget to notice with time.

We continued on with our literary tourism. We went down to Concord, MA and explored the Louisa May Alcott house. The streets of Concord were resplendent with fall foliage. We visited old bookshops, coffee shops, graveyards, libraries. I read a book Nema bought to the people passing by, leaning up against the brick wall of a hundreds of years old building “A is for Amy who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil assaulted by bears. C is for Clara who wasted away. D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh...” (The Gashlycrumb Tinies, Edward Gorey). We watched people while drinking local sodas. We especially loved the old people with dogs in slings and the swaggering youth full of false confidence and meaning no harm. We watched city birds. We touched the bark of magnificent trees. We peered through hedgerows at stately old estates trying to tuck away from prying eyes. We read historical signs about Minutemen and old timey heroes.

We reveled in the sunshine and the fragrance only made by a sunshine day in October in New England. You’ll have to go there someday and smell it for yourself. “Oh, my!” you’ll exclaim “if only I could bottle this up to use as sweet perfume.” But you can’t bottle up a fall day in New England. You can’t even keep it in your memory. Each October, as it comes, you’ll again be drunk on the colors: gold, greens, reds, oranges of every hue and the smells of autumn will fill your senses as if you’d never experienced them before. You’ll breathe deep, filling your lungs as if to hold onto something warm, something colorful for the long white winter to come.

I finished up the wood with my dad. Megan and I put away the summer outdoor things into their winter hiding places. I hauled up five gallon drums of syrup from the basement to the sugar shack so my dad could bottle it in various smaller vessels. It snowed. I caught perfect flakes on my sleeve. I watched the dark-eyed Juncos reappear at the bird feeders, a sure sign winter has come. I thought about leaving. I thought about warm desert suns, rock wrens, cactus woodpeckers, and roadrunners. I thought about leaving. I thought about cold mornings and desert night skies. I thought about Arizona sunsets and New Mexican wind. I thought about leaving, and all my loves who can’t come with me, all my loves who’ll stay with the dark-eyed Juncos and the perfect snowflakes.

Two skunks come to eat the sunflower seeds dropped by the greedy birds. My dad named the skunks Jimmy, and he said if we talk nicely to them they’ll pay us no mind. My dad is Cinderella, this much is true. I enjoyed my nightly ‘fresh air’ with the skunks. I talked to them softly. I felt risky. I felt wild. I talked softly. I didn’t want to get sprayed.

We voted. Our town should have a line for just the people with last names starting with S. Since then, I’ve felt closed, self-protective, and, physically, like I had been beaten with sledge hammers. I was, honestly, at times, surprised when I looked in the mirror and my face was not battered and bruised. I halfway expected to see two black eyes, a broken nose, and busted lip. If you don’t understand why then you do not know or love anyone who is in a minority group. And I feel bad for you and how lacking your life must be. I spent a few weeks getting my underground network together, places around the country where I could lay low, places where the people wouldn’t sell me out to Christofascists for the price of a dozen eggs. I am not ashamed or embarrassed that I thought decency would win out. I am not ashamed that I don’t understand people who have no decency. So I took my time, I kept close to the people I love the most. I talked to my mom. She told me to read the Bible. But I don’t want to read a book which turns so many people into compassionless worshipers of prosperity and elitism, soulless ghouls who would rather hang the ten commandments in a school than feed hungry children. A book that somehow makes so many people breathlessly glorify violence and abhor their neighbor, the immigrant, the widow, and the poor. I’ve read it, of course, and my reading comprehension is fairly good so I think that if one actually attempted to live a life acting in accordance to Jesus’ teachings, the sheer breadth of your kindness, humbleness, love, and generosity would compel other people to want to follow that path without you having to say a word, without you trying to use state sanctioned violence to force people to live by your beliefs. But, what do I know? I am just a lady who believes in the freedom of religion, the freedom of the press, the freedom to protest. I am just a lady who thinks rapists should be imprisoned, sedition should be punished, a man who says he wants to be a dictator and not only says that but tried to stage a coup should never be president. I’m just a lady who never wants to be mistaken for a hypocrite. I had met a wild and beautiful woman at my mom’s while we were there this summer. Nema, Megan, and I had a flowing alive conversation with her in the morning sun that went on for hours. She texted me one day to tell me I am seen, valid, and loved in this conflicted place in time. It’s good to know good people. It’s good to meet people, to go to deep places in conversation with them. It’s good for good people to see me. See people. Jesus does.

We stuck around New Hampshire, thinking our thoughts, talking to Mom and Nema and Heather. We found new music. I saw the world dim. I looked for books, journals and diaries from people who had resisted, who had fought for democracy even when it all seemed lost. I looked for books from people who knew great evil and oppression and still tried to make a difference. I thought about my marriage. I thought about no forgiveness for anyone who voted for people who will gleefully work to take my rights away from me. No forgiveness. None. I worried about all the marginalized people I know. All the ones I don’t know. I thought about disabled veterans. I thought about how we voted to be a nation that is talking about cutting veteran benefits so Elon Musk can have more money. As if we could ever be too generous to our veterans. Trump was right about one thing: we are a shit hole of a country.

My mom fretted and worried over Nema, Megan, and I- worried about the heaviness weighing upon us. She asked questions. She listened. She asked more questions. She wanted to understand us. She let it go and circled back around later. She seemed so small and I seemed so towering and large as I cried ugly in the kitchen. I told her all the things, all the times I have taken the high road, all the things I’ve overlooked, all the ways I have damaged my own dignity to forgive, to love, to continue having peaceful relations with people who claim to love me. No more. My mom hugged me. She told me I would always find safety with her. And I believe her. I love you, Mom.

I felt lighter. I worried about leaving Nema. I asked all my loves to circle around each other. We packed up Henry. We packed precious cargo of maple syrup for the far away sisters. We had coffee with P. She slipped an envelope in my pocket. She told me to open it later. She told us to be safe, to send pictures, to let her live vicariously through our adventures. We rolled out of New Hampshire, heading west and then south at about 11:30 in the morning. I opened the envelope on interstate 88 in New York. Inside was some cash for road snacks and a note telling us to be lights in the world, to spread kindness and goodness in all places. I try to leave a place better than I found it. I try to be a better person than I was yesterday. We listened to a Semler song. We sang along “I’m on a roof in Massachusetts, slow and sick and less than useless, blood thick on the snow below. If I fell from here no one would know. Conversation overload, how are you doing? I don’t even know. I want to change my mind, change my clothes, never knew a heart could be this broke. But I went through the window that night cause if I can’t fly then I’ll fight. Before the morning frost set in, I got myself up out of Boston. There’s a city on a hill where I go, full of everyone that I love and know. And I find you every time, this light of mine. Made it through a night in the rain, wrestled tooth and nail for my name. And I find you every time, this little light of mine” P is in that city on the hill where I find my light to shine.

We made it to Tranquility in North Carolina at about 4:30 in the morning. Eve left the door unlocked for us, and we slipped as quietly as possible into the bedroom she always has open for us. I awoke about 10:00. Eve was at work. That night Eve made us a delicious dinner of chili and apple crisp. Several of my grown nieces and nephews came over to visit and eat with us. I made friends with a new great niece. I talked to one of my niece’s husbands for a long time about Toyotas and overlanding. We talked about lifts and custom steel bumpers, winches, wheels, rooftop tents. I showed him pictures of elk sheds I had found while hiking near the east rim of the Grand Canyon. My niece, Jubilee, who is precious in my mind told me I looked so handsome in my coat. She isn’t wrong. It’s handsome coat and I’m getting along to be toothsome in it. We catch up with Eve. We stayed up too late. Eve kissed my cheek. She told us we are always welcome here in Tranquility. I’m thankful for my city on a hill, scattered here and there. Eve is no small part of this little light of mine.

Appaloosa and pony.

We left North Carolina in the late morning. We headed for upstate South Carolina. We stayed and shared Thanksgiving with my sister, Annie and family. My god daughter and I played Mario. My nephews joined in. We laughed and shouted and eventually won, rescuing Princess Peach from the castle. We go hiking in places we have hiked before. We saw the destruction wrought by Helene. We have good conversations and good coffee. While hiking Chestnut Ridge, Savanna decides we should pretend to be horses and gallop up the hills. She tells me she’s an Appaloosa. She tells me I have to be a pony because I’m kind of grumpy and don’t really like children but I’ll tolerate them. We galloped off. She refuses to wear shoes, ever. We laughed as we charge through the forest. I love her more than there are stars in the sky or words in the heart. My niece, Shanna, listened to music with me in the bright sunshine on the deck. I felt connected and close to her. My twin nephews are around more this time than they had been the last few times we’ve been there.

They are almost grown men, but my heart still sees them at all ages; snowshoeing with me back in New Hampshire when they were 10, kayaking with me at Tully lake, finding the good island with rope swing and good swimming spot, the time they helped me move into the wooded knoll- how we went to the general store for lunch afterwards- they played checkers in the sun. Annie and her family live in my city on a hill where I find this little light of mine.

Atlanta, GA

We leave South Carolina around noon. We head west and south. We crawl through Atlanta with the traffic. We roll through sweet home Alabama. We cross into Mississippi in the dark. I put the pedal down through Jackson. We roll over the Mississippi river and give a cheer in the dark for Louisiana. One of Louisiana’s highway patrolmen lights me up outside of Monroe. I touch the brakes, and he lets me cruise on into the night. We find our favorite spot to camp in the Kisatchie National Forest around 11:30 pm. We quickly set up the roofnest. I can’t fall asleep. I feel like I’m still moving even though I'm sitting still. We get up late. Our coffee maker has an issue, and we have warmish bad coffee. We don’t get moving until noon. Noon is apparently the time we like to leave a place. We push on into Texas. We sit in traffic in Dallas/Fort Worth. When we finally make it through the cities, we find a rest area. We take a break, but can’t sleep. We drive on towards Abilene. We pass through miles and miles of wind farms and solar fields. In the early morning, we watch them harvest cotton, the fields look like snow. Giant bales of cotton wait for pick up.

We thank God when we see the Hobbs, New Mexico sign. We drive west, eventually winding our way up and through the Sacramento Mountains. There’s snow in the shadowed places. We pass through the lovely town of Cloudcroft at an elevation of 8,676 ft. I put Henry into low gear going down the steep grades into Alamogordo.

I get a lump in my throat when I see the Organ Mountains in the distance, ghosting in the dust storm coming from White Sands. Those are my mountains. We take I-10 out of Las Cruces. We head west. We find our best spot in New Mexico, empty, down its miles and miles of dirt roads. We set up the tent. We are hot in the sunshine. We breathe a sigh of relief. We go to bed early. We sleep like the dead.