Baby Bald Eagle Flying Over Rt. 2 and Fresh Eggs Sold at the Side of the Road

We thought we'd spend the last Saturday in March out in Western Mass. There was short debate about not going--the area's still snowy, and the trip means a couple hours in the car--but we agreed: "It just feels good" to be out there. And it does. It feels really good. By 11am we were seated in the cafe of the Bookmill, in the sun where Peaches could admire my blue mascara, watching a baby laugh at dominos and awaiting our grilled brie and pear sandwiches. I'd already found two Robert B. Parker novels, a vegetarian cookbook, a workout book for stuntwomen, and a design book by Chip Kidd. I'd also read several chapters on a book for hip witches and decided a.) witches are the same as any spiritual seekers b.) aspiring to magic is good and c.) not to buy it. I reminisced to Peaches about the days spent in the same cafe, thirteen years ago, when my dear friend Chris worked there, in the old Ecstatic Yod location, selling records, and I would go just to get off campus and work without interruption, and to spend the drive there and back in his quiet company. I could feel both of our presences. I am always relieved that I feel so easily connected to life there.

A visit to terrarium wonderland Black Jungle was followed by a slow drive down the Main Street of Turner's Falls. We wanted to buy my dad a present for his birthday next weekend. "Maybe in the antique store?" "My dad likes old things." "But he's not a thing guy." "Nah, he doesn't really need any of this stuff." "How about that bookstore?" "My dad likes books. And movies. Old things. Mild cheeses. Milk chocolate. Humor." But nothing stood out, not even the cool air plants at Black Jungle or the old tractor seats in the dusty antique store.

We turned and drove down the back street of town, along the abandoned mill buildings. The handsome brick buildings stood close to one another, maybe once continuous, even, but now entire sections of building had crumbled. The remaining windows were smashed out and the long, wide flexible pipes that were so carefully installed, floor to floor, to help ventilate the building now sagged garishly, popping ends out in our direction, like a lewd invitation. Behind them the old floors were evident, the places where floors and ceilings had been. Through the open windows you could see big open floors, through the smashed windows on the other side, over Connecticut River canyon, right across to the trees on the other side.

Taking a sharp right turn, the worn bridge revealed just how fast and narrow the river is right at that spot, and the abandoned buildings stood essentially in the water, crumbling brick and smokestack dramatically vulnerable-looking in a spring rush of melted snow. Of course, we realized, that's why they were there: to generate power, once, for the town, and beyond, back when the forests were gone and the air was thick with pollutants and people in the area were gainfully employed. Now everything was overgrown, like a Mayan ruin in the jungle.

Over fried clam rolls and fries and apple pie, we looked at land prices in Wendell.