But, of course, the rest of the world rolls along, oblivious to you. Since I came to Brassard’s farm, things have changed. Our country is going through what feels like an upheaval, one that’s not entirely comprehensible to us here in the valley. It’s not just here; it seems as if it’s in every nation, even the dear planet itself and all its living creatures. We hear the news; sometimes we are frightened for the future.
But I console myself. I remind myself that tyrants have risen, reigned, wrought havoc, fallen. Some we remember; most we have long forgotten or have learned about only from their tombs. Nations, cruel or kind, wise or foolish, have reared up and believed themselves grand and eternal; we know of the most recent of these, of course, but the vast majority we discover in archaeological digs, their time-worn traces buried by the years and cryptic to us.
Throughout history, wars have raged, engulfing lands and people, but inevitably, green has returned to the ravaged and bloodied ground. That’s because there is a through line, an unsevered strand. We—I am now we—we who work the land are still here. We never went away. Our way of life endures and we are anything but fragile. Here in Brassard’s valley, on all the farms, the spirit of Diz resides, strong, indomitable. Cross her at your peril.
And capable men like Brassard, good men like Earnest, wise women like Lynn—they’re here, their spirits and backbones are here and they are not just worthy but durable as well. We fall in love as people have always done, and have children as people have always done, and we toil alongside each other as people have always done. We even enjoy each other’s company, mostly. Other things come and go, but these good things endure, and when you work among them, you know with certainty they always will.
We’re farmers. We know about uncertainties and bad weather and pests. They do give us great concern, but we have seen them come and seen them go. We’re used to sticking it out and seeing the other side.
Then there is love. This is a love story, after all. I came to love so much, in so many ways, in large part because I, believing myself to be falling helplessly, to have no choices, was compelled to accept what came to me from even the most unexpected quarter. I would never have guessed that I’d learn to love a scraggly forest, a hard-pressed farm, or the man who loves me as I do him.
I know many people find themselves to be similarly falling. Of course I cannot speak for your fate, only wish upon you understanding of the most important thing I learned from my stumbling, flailing, falling arrival at Brassard’s farm: All those years I was falling and so frightened, I was always falling home.
THE END
Acknowledgments
On Brassard’s Farm wouldn’t exist without Rick Bleiweiss of Blackstone Publishing, who tracked me down and urged me to write the kind of book I’d always wanted to. His encouragement and enthusiasm made all the difference. I’m very grateful to him and to the others at Blackstone who read the book and truly saw what it was and what it could be.
Thanks are due to Michael Carr, whose marvelous editing gave the book some class and whose conversation, not just about this book but about style and mechanics in general, made it an enjoyable process.
I owe sincere thanks to all Vermont farmers, the women and men who put food on our tables every day and who are too seldom acknowledged for doing so. President Eisenhower got it right when he said, “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you’re a thousand miles away from the cornfield.”
In particular, I owe special thanks to dairy farmers Jerry Kill and Mark Rodgers, who helped me understand the daily realities of farming. Any misrepresentation of dairy farm practices in this book results from fictional license or the thickness of my skull, not from any want of expertise or effort on their part. I am also indebted to Diane Bothfeld and Dan Scruton of the Vermont Agency of Agriculture, who first introduced me to the challenges of dairy farming in the Green Mountains. Thanks also to Dick Waybright of Mason Dixon Farm for giving me so much of his time and knowledge.
I thank my brother Nicholas Hecht, artist and wizard, who opened my mind and heart to the mysteries of the deep woods and the magic that can find you in unfamiliar forest at night. Nick guided and accompanied me on many vision quests, including that night when we lay on the ground, far up in a Vermont hill pasture, to be surrounded by fifty uneasy cows. It was thanks to Nick’s calm and charm that we befriended them.
I could not have portrayed the character Earnest without the examples of four men. Elmer (Menominee) was the tree surgeon for whom I served as rope man and who really did jam ice cubes into his canteen with one finger. My brother-in-law Ken Schuyler (Oneida) remained my dear friend despite my messing up his trucks and tractors when I lived in the Schuylers’ chicken coop. Bob Kirk and his brother Ernest Kirk (Diné) are wise, strong, talented men who introduced me to Navajo culture, let me live in the goat barn while I wrote Land of Echoes, and showed me firsthand the grace and trust that comes from not talking so damn much.
Ultimately, this book must be dedicated to my wife Stella, without whom I couldn’t do much of anything and who, along with Jean, Willow, and Amie, helped me understand a bit about women, love, and life.
