After many months, I just looked up and realized just how late it’s gotten- while I was busy, the forest changed from a symphony of green to an arboreal fiesta of reds and yellows. People are stuffed into coats and scarves with raw chilled hands plunged in pockets for warmth. The harvest is in, my project is done. It’s a wrap. It’s time to go home.
I’ve learned various things from my odyssey in the woods- all about heirloom apples and ox-milled apple cider, how an ice-house works, early American taverns and roadhouses, and how to use Google for finding 18th century farm journals, among other things…but what it comes down to is this:
The forest is the story.
People are tied to the land, and this land was, and still is, shaped by people. The New England forest is filled with artifacts and relics, skeletons and ghosts, and is in itself an artifact of human history.
There are a couple of new pages with lots more artwork, and there’s lots more to come as soon as I get to finish scanning it all in. I’ve been a poor correspondent, I know. It was necessary to keep low to the ground, to go to a quiet place. The woods were perfect. Thoreau said, “Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?”
Excuse me while I brush away the leaves and mould, and return myself to the world.