The Mill and The River Vol. 2 #1

1) I am deemed penniless though I find them everywhere, and the whole world revolves around nickels and dimes and quarters and dollars and lots of it—but my whole world, as I want it, is to be by the river and in the mill, writing all these thoughts and stories as I see them through my eyes. That’s where all my wealth comes from. From the understanding of mothers and fathers who see this life as an irresistible escape into irresponsibility—but for me, it’s the responsibility in the irresponsibility of my wandering soul to hold onto the moment: the water churning west down the Mill River, the piano-tuned whispers of tree branches brushing the second-floor deck where my writing desk has been called to work. They don’t understand, but I do.

2) Candlelight by a night-shining star with the Monday evening blues sizzling into the arrival of the traveler as I rounded the bend, past the old chapel, and saw Tilly in her rocking chair reading a book or something on her lap, but I drove on past and around another corner to where the Mill River bridge had been shining bright brown, its entrance clean like a new bridge, and I remembered the day it was closed to everything and everyone for seven months until the next spring day when I was already gone, off on one of my grand trips across America, only to return and find it still closed, which also reminded me of the day the raccoon had been climbing on the balcony of the bridge during one of my bike rides on the road across the other side, and another reminder of the big truck with its engine roaring up Mill River Road around 6:30 each day, and then I went down to the mill itself and met with... and then I was given a key I knew all too well and went right back up to the empty barn and it remained quiet because my friend was gone, my start to a new story was on me, and the second half of the mill story continues alone.

3) “Oh, so you want to be in one of my stories,” I asked. And she said she wanted to be in all of my stories—and here I was, thinking, as I toured Lake Bomoseen, staring off at the different hills and mountains and the ripples in the water, and the sun started to peer through the rainy clouds and it got warm very quickly. So where do you see yourself in five years? she asked, hand on her chin hanging over the table facing me, studying me. Oh, the five-year tragedy—I don’t even know what I want to be tomorrow. Her pretty eyes staring deep into mine, knowing I had to say the right thing there. And I said, I want to be something specific, like a plumber or a carpenter—something specific—but also that I want all my books to be published too, because that’s the only thing I know how to do right now. They all looked at me like I was some perfection of life, called to tell stories about all the beauties and tragedies that life has shown me and more. But I thought for a moment that anyone who wants to be in my stories should, no doubt. And then we all laughed and rode on the flat boat as we ended the day on the water. And just like I always do, I don’t even remember their names, but I remember what they said. And of course, sad, gloomy Landin starts to show himself whenever someone asks him what his story is—and then he has to remind himself, and everyone else, that it’s many stories, and they’re all being written at the Mill.

4) A maple tree is most beautiful in the spring, and the summer, and the fall, and the winter—there is no distinction. The tree that stands tall by the barn seems bigger and taller each time I see it in a different season. The maple tree has seen it all by the water for many years, and I am not the first observer of such a great, majestic theme—like the veins on a green, lush oak leaf and the trunk rising from the ground, where its roots dig deep beneath the earth and stretch further still, growing each day. Please don’t cut this tree down, I say to them—those who had cut down another beautiful tree just on the other side of the granary, a tree that was gone before my arrival but still lived in the memory shared with me by Tilly, who said she cried all day. The trunk still remains, though cut to the bare core, and it stays not only as a reminder that the thing once beautiful is still beautiful, even though it is no longer here—a metaphor for life, really.

5) I hear or heard stories about the Mill from my year away—wow, can’t believe it has been a year already between my work on the orchard and my travels across America. It has been a year, and it’s no surprise to me anymore that time is quick and moments are truly fleeting fast. The stories that were told to me said the Mill was falling apart—the pipes were bursting and leaking bad, flooding the barn and making awful smells. The doors and floors were all sick with impairments of their own. Then Tilly had no heat for most of the bad winter days when it was nothing but cold, cold, cold, and even more cold. Blankets and sheets were worn around the house each day but didn’t make much of a difference. I sent postcards to them from every city—New Orleans, Chicago, Portland, Kansas City, Los Angeles, Crescent Beach, Whitefish—and no letters were sent back. My dreams to return were mostly just dreams until I deemed that it was the place where I could only truly get my stories written, just as the Mill and the River are in unison with each other.

A Poem for Arrivals and Departures

One arrives in a perilous state of mind,

dirty and stale and lost,

another leaves with hopes and light in their eyes,

and lasting love for the trip embarking on,

and the one who has arrived is booed and penniless,

but his heart is full,

and the other, whose eyes are like stars now,

was once lost and obscured,

crazed for its lust for newness.

And the opposites are true,

though they should be opposites mistakenly.