A Living Magazine - Day 332 - Homecoming - Greenfield: Melinda's Town

There was the sound of breaking sticks and rustling leaves. As I opened my eyes, I saw cars and a large truck pass by on the road above through the screen on the roof of the tent. Beside me were little footsteps, scurrying around through the leaves of the woods. Then whatever it was got very near the wall of the tent. I have a screen right at eye level next to me, so I turned and saw a rather large rabbit walk-hop into view. It was darker in the tent than it was in the woods, so he didn't see my big eyes looking at him.

He was not in the least bit concerned about the presence of this nylon structure occupying what seemed to be his normal little bunny path. Hopping right up to the side of the tent, he twitched his nose a few times, and then continued on past me and over to a ditch of running water near the foot of the tent. I turned up onto my side and watched him disappear over the bank of the ditch, presumably in quest of a refreshing morning drink.

As I've indicated many times in the last six weeks or so, my temptation in the mornings -  especially when in a good hidden spot - is to sleep-in for a while. The thought crossed my mind, but I decided instead to get going. I'd had the same jeans on night and day for over a week. My socks were worn through, and the two shirts I had been wearing were crusted with salt. In a word, I was an uncomfortable, smelly mess. This was my motivator to get up and continue to the center of Greenville where I could contact Melinda and have some idea when we'd be meeting. I assumed a shower and some kind of laundry plan would shortly follow.

So, I packed up and climbed the hill, emerging onto the road, just as traffic was really picking up. Then I walked the short distance down Cheapside Street (yes that's a real street name, and it is literally on the "other side of the tracks") back to Route 5, and thence toward Greenfield proper...

The Green River.

The center of Greenfield is a neat example of small city Americana, possessing all of the traits that a local, but cosmopolitan population would want access to. There were small cafes, specialty shops, clothes stores, pawn shops, a surprisingly numerous number of music related businesses, restaurants, larger brick and stone businesses, and the characteristic statues and monuments one might expect to find in a historic New England town. This Fender bass amp converted into a bedstand caught my eye...

I love the details, like using patch cords for handles.

This was a town that had its own brand of unpretentious pride, with its community programs, renovation projects, and murals like the one above.

I ended up marching up Federal Street to the McDonald's there in search of Wi-Fi and breakfast. When I reached the golden arches, I noticed that the restaurant was still pretty much in 1980's mode. There were no outlets and the internet was spotty. Shortly after I turned on the laptop it turned itself off for lack of battery power. But I was smart enough to have located the library, back downtown at the intersection with Main Street.

There wasn't much to do but eat my Big Breakfast, sip my coffee, and listen to the locals. It was with a mixture of nostalgia and interest that I tuned into these conversations. New England people are tough, but real. I mentioned to a friend of mine recently that in both the Northwest and New England, people were generally peace loving and kind, but both regions had folks who would figuratively stab you if they could. The difference is that in the West the knife is more likely to be in your back, where in New England the attacker was more apt to at least let you see it coming from the front.

Nevertheless, none of these conversations were approaching deception or betrayal. They were just the daily pleasantries of people who probably made McDonald's a regular morning routine. Ever since passing over from Connecticut into Massachusetts, I'd notice a certain kind of "towny" ignorance that I recognized well from my former life in Maine (primarily around the Buxton area and York County). At the risk of pigeonholing, there are the white collar folks, the merchant class, the artsy fartsy, and the ignorant. While the first three stereotypes are but transient visitors to the street level life, the ignorant live there. Now, this is not a criticism of the character of this street level, nor is it a criticism in general, but merely an observation using education as a meter stick. These McDonald's folk do not speak correctly. Yes, accents are part of speech in all regions of the county. But "I weren't theyah last night" (for example) is quite singular to New England. It shows the accent (separate from educational level); the well-educated local would say, "I wasn't theyah last night." But more importantly, it shows the lack of education replacing "wasn't" with "weren't."

This interest in the way people speak is not new for me. I've studied much about it, and carefully observed it all over this nation. I've come to believe that the use of improper English (as demonstrated above) is largely a voluntary and conscious decision. Even when shown the correct way to speak, uneducated people will revert to their errors on purpose because of peer pressure. In the Buxton, Maine area where I lived for several years, I hung out with, worked with, and played music with this uneducated stratum of folks. And, even I would frequently dumb down (if you will) my pronunciations to fit in and not be bothered by my curious peers. I once used the pronunciation of either as "eye-ther" instead of "ee-ther" and was mildly teased about sounding like "a professor."

Anyway, all of this crossed my mind as the town folk came and went. I finished up and headed back downtown to the library on Main Street...  

As you can see, this is very beautiful old building with strong historic roots in the town.

I worked until afternoon, knowing that Melinda had a client (she does a very interesting quantum biofeedback service, which I will go into detail about in upcoming posts), until 3:00 p.m. I contacted her and we made plans to meet in front of the library at 4:30 p.m., when she would pick me up.

I got a bit of work done, and then the time arrived to wait outside. I packed up and left the building to wait for her. When she swung by I noticed her shining smile right away. We had met at  conference for a philosophical group that we both participate in, back in 2014, in Amherst, Massachusetts and had hit it off right away. The conference hadn't been far from her home here in Greenfield--near enough to Maine to be a practical visit. So we conspired to meet again someday. Now that day had come. In the meantime, she had followed my progress all the way from Maine to California, having then given generous amounts of moral and financial support for the Living Magazine Journey after leaving California all along the way, and until this very day.

It was not only appropriate that now, as I was wrapping up my long journey, I should meet up with her, but seemed auspicious and beneficial for our friendship to be doing so. We greeted each other with the enthusiasm of two people who felt the weight and importance of this day, but also as kindred spirits who seemed to have known each other for eons of universal time.

We arrived at her house, not far from the McDonald's where I'd had breakfast, and went inside. It was a wonderful place; a space of comfortable and classy warmth, filled with the busy and satisfying things that a great mind needs in order to stay inspired. I felt immediately at home. There was something about Melinda that I noticed even when we'd first met two years ago. She was simply so easy to talk to, so friendly and engaging, that I felt like I'd already been there for weeks, though it had only been minutes.

She showed me up to my room. It was her daughter's room, but her daughter was at school in the Northwest, leaving me a real feather bed, and a private space to unwind. I quickly got out of my uncomfortable clothes and took a shower. That felt great!

Evening was upon us and we discussed whether we should eat there or go out. Either way, we were in the mood for Mexican food. Somehow I knew that she was an excellent cook, but perhaps symbolically, she showed me the avocados she'd just purchased and that they were not quite ready for use--you know avocados are very picky about being used at just the right time. They needed to be soft but not squishy, and they just were not there yet.

So, she invited me to go out to Mesa Verde, which was just down the street and off of Main. Sounded good to me! When we were ready to eat, we hopped in the car and drove down to this place. It was really neat; colorful on the inside with a very friendly staff. We decided to eat in and ordered our meals. I honestly can't remember what Melinda ordered, but I chose the blackened catfish burrito. I got a beer and she got a seltzer water. We sat and caught up while our food was being prepared.

Now, here is the thing about my time with Melinda. Sometimes being with a host I don't know very well can have its awkward silent moments. But I simply felt none with her. We had so much in common, so many subjects that we were both interested in, that there was no time for awkwardness. Slowly I learned about her family roots, her career up to her retirement, her quantum biofeedback work, and her cabin in Boothbay Harbor Maine. And, she was enthusiastic to hear about some of the adventures I'd had, but not written about yet--things that will come up in future books.

When our food arrived we ate slowly while peeling open all of these subjects. When we had stayed so long that it looked like the place was getting ready to close, we headed out and back to her house. There, we talked in the living room until well after midnight. We realized that we have a habit of burning hours without realizing how much time has passed. Eventually, we both admitted it was time to hit the hay, and retired to our rooms, ready for another full day--even if that meant sleeping in for a while in the morning.