far too much writing, far too many photos Thursday, January 03, 2002 The year so far (beginning with the end to the old year): Woke up in Cambridge, Mass. early on the morning of the 31st -- way early, far too early -- the last day of my tenancy in an apartment I've had for nearly six years. (Sniffle.) Got up, packed the remainder of my things, stuffed them in my car. Cleaned the apartment, dragged the sofa out to the sidewalk along with the garbage/recycling. Hit the road. Reached northern Vermont around noon, the ride featuring snow, wild turkeys, amazing winter views. Dropped my travelling bags in a Montpelier B&B, then headed out to where I'd be garaging my Subaru for the coming months. Dropped off the car, began the short hike downhill to Route 12, the two-lane that heads south to Montpelier, intending to thumb my way back into town, stopping along the way for a brief visit with an elderly couple I know, Mo and Kay Pearsons (pronounced 'Persons'). A hugely entertaining pair who have lived in their small home on a hill in East Calais for more than 50 years. Mo's family has lived in the town for generations, he's the real item. Grew up there, went to a one-room schoolhouse on the other side of the hill, worked as a stone-cutter in Barre (Montpelier's evil twin city) for many years. About a month ago, creosote build-up in the chimney pipe from their wood stove led to a chimney fire. They've since been enduring extensive repair work, labor long overdue in a house that old and so good for all concerned. An added benefit: it gives them an ongoing source for complaints and exposition. That, hunting matters (Mo being hardcore), and the ongoing drought that's left them without running water for several months composed most of Mo's conversation. Kay, on the other hand, vented about the various physical trials they've both endured over the past year (Mo's age: around 80; Kay's: 70-something), along with 9/11 and whatever else came to mind, giving thanks over and over that 2001 was on the way out. When they learned I intended to hitch back into Montpelier, they refused to allow it, getting a touch offended when I insisted there was no need for them to put themselves out. Mo and I climbed into his Chevy truck -- one of the joys of his existence -- and drove back roads to Montpelier. Got back to town before darkness fell. Montpelier: a town of 8,000 people -- just a little outpost nestled in a basin among green, looming hills, at the conjunction of two rivers. A place that would be described as sleepy if it weren't the state capital. The small downtown area is active during the Monday through Friday daytime hours, shutting down fairly decisively after the workday, though that softens some during the summer and leaf-peeper months when hours of sunlight are longer and tourists are about. The B&B, situated up the hill from downtown, is part of a small empire run by a married couple, including at least three nice old buildings. On arriving, I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in more than a year and a half, a lovely woman who works there cooking and cleaning. It was good to see her, so good that it made me wonder why the hell I was leaving. In my room, I found myself turning on the tube, watching parts of various program orgies (Twilight Zone, Buffy The Vampire Slayer). By the time I'd torn myself away from all that and slipped/slid my way downtown, the town hall clock had struck 8 p.m., the Montpelier First Night parade had gotten underway. Drums and sounds of partying, a stream of bodies and torches passing at the intersection of State and Main at the foot of the hill. A couple of searchlights pointed up into the sky, light snow falling through their beams. A huge light mounted up on the tower of the City Hall projected moving bubbles of light along sidewalks, street, nearby buildings. Kind of a surreal Lawrence Welkey thing. The parade moved off down State Street toward the State House, a stretch of road lined with an interesting combination of old and more recent buildings, the Capitol Building itself -- stately, elegant, gold-domed, compact -- occupying a sweeping stretch of lawns and walkways. Few businesses were open, the ones that were (especially the Ben & Jerry's shop) seemed to be doing brisk business. There are two good bookstores right at the main downtown intersection, Bear Pond Books and Rivendell Books, they might have roped in a bunch of customers that night. Then again, maybe they preferred partying to working. As the crowd swarmed away toward the State House, I searched for food, winding up at a window table in a Chinese restaurant shoveling down a generous pile of chicken lo mein. Outside, a short, heavy-set, dentally-challenged young woman wandered into view. She held something that looked like it might have been a street newspaper along the lines of Spare Change, the paper sold on the streets of Boston and Cambridge, Mass. And as she hovered out there, the sound of fireworks erupted. Montpelier's First Night finale. At 8:30 in the evening. Aren't New Year's Eves fiestas supposed to climax around midnight? (After spending most of the last year and a half in Madrid, I'm constantly startled at the American tendency to start and finish evening activities early.) [cont'd in entry of Jan. 7] rws 1:32 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain rebel market letting me be out and about kung fu grippe fanatical apathy baghdad burning wfuv's music blog kexp's music blog mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy the impossible cool tomato can brushes vermont homestead sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: last fm stereo8 pandora soma fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. 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