I was by no means a rabid survivalist, buying guns and hoarding cases of Spam. As for food, I enjoyed nothing more than a fresh ripe mango, Asian cooking seasoned with curry and saffron, tender mesclun lettuce from California fields. And beef fed on a mix of genetically modified corn, Saudi Arabian oil, and what little was left of the Ogallala Aquifer. But what could I do about it? We all knew things were going to hell in a shopping cart, and like everyone else, I soothed the pangs of this awareness with the balm of cynicism, resignation, and a high tolerance for my own hypocrisy.
I didn’t often wail or rage about this. But it was certainly one piece of the puzzle, one of the reasons I found myself scrambling and tangling around Brassard’s back forty that day: There’s got to be a more honest, less divided way to live.
Chapter 4
I covered a lot of rugged ground that first day. I made it to somewhere near the upper property line—just as Brassard had said, a wall of boulders tumbled against a steep hill. They ranged in size from a microwave to a minivan, and white birches thrust up through the ramparts here and there. I was unwilling to get too close to the dark gaps and shallow caves between rocks, worried that creatures might take offense at my intrusion. It looked like the kind of place that animals hibernated or denned or whatever it was called, and gave birth. I had no desire to startle a she-bear guarding her cubs. Also, I remembered that there were copperheads in Vermont, and these rocks seemed just the sort of place they would hang out. I paused for one uneasy moment at the boulder wall before deciding I had located the upper border precisely enough.
I headed back toward the submarine’s prow, then cut down the west-facing slope to look for the border with Hubbard’s land. At the bottom, I found an old knee-high stone wall and followed it along. Stretches of rusted barbed wire, deeply embedded in the trees that held them, assured me I had found the property line.
By early afternoon, I was getting tired, so I angled back uphill to the flat top where I’d started. That exquisite awareness of small wonders had long since faded. The morning’s fresh sun had stealthily faded into a thin, bright but sullen overcast. My feet were numb and my shoes thick with mud; my fleece was torn and bristled with burr fuzz. The constant tangling and slipping and fighting with vegetation had made me irritable.
More, it made me despondent: I didn’t really like the outdoors that much. Buying some land wasn’t going to fix what was wrong with me, but I had no other idea what might. Here was yet another example of my inanity. The remorseless engine of self-flagellating introspection started up in me.
Enough. I slogged down the tractor trail back to Brassard’s farm, unsure whether I should go through with my grand stupid plan, and distinctly ambivalent about this particular place.
I crossed the road and walked past my car to the tractor Earnest had been working on. There was no sign of either man or Bob the dog.
I walked to the barn’s broad doorway and leaned in. “Mr. Brassard? Earnest?”
No answer. I went to the end of the yard to where the pasture fence met the corner of the barn, scouted the field and saw no one except tranquil cows.
“Mr. Brassard?” I yelled.
Behind me I heard the stretch of a storm-door spring and turned to see a woman coming out of the house. She was gray-haired and barrel-shaped, wearing a floral housedress, down vest, and tall rubber boots. She shut the inner door behind her and let the outer door slap shut.
Bob had followed her out and immediately came to me to review my scent in a friendly way.
“Bob, get your nose the hell out of that woman’s privates!” she roared. When the dog backed away, she visored her eyes with one hand to look at me. “You want the men, they’ve gone to get a tractor part and some other indispensables. Said you’d be down after a while.”
“Are you Mrs. Brassard?”
“Sure hope so. After thirty-five years, I’d be dismayed to discover I’d been living in sin all the while. My name is Maureen—one hell of an awful name, so people call me Diz, and don’t ask how that happened. How’d you like the property?”
I crossed the yard and driveway to shake hands with her. “It’s really nice. I had a good time walking around.”
Behind her glasses, shrewd eyes scanned me up and down, taking in my dishevelment. “Looks like you did. Think you’ll buy it?”
“Well, I’ve got to think about it. Consider the money side a little more. But it’s the nicest I’ve seen so far.”
Mrs. Brassard, Diz, gathered up a pair of empty galvanized buckets and started toward the barn, tipping her head for me to follow.
“I get up there a couple times a year. Chase the bears out of the brambles and take about five gallons of blackberries, come August. Lose about the same in blood from the thorns. Pretty piece of property, but no good for a year-round house. What d’you want with it, anyway?”
I sloshed behind her for another few steps. “Build a little cabin and have a place to get away to once in a while.” Then I surprised us both by confessing, “That’s what I’ve been thinking, anyway. Actually, I’m not sure exactly why.”
She’d gotten to the door of the barn but now turned around, buckets clanking. My last comment had kicked it up a notch, suggesting that my purpose was more than recreational.
She looked at me with heightened interest, and lips compressed in
