Is anything more cliché than a sunset? Probably not. But I’m going to describe the one I saw last night anyways. My mom’s friend Darlene invited me, my mom, and three other women on her boat to cruise North along the Connecticut River. We packed a cooler of sangria, petite carrots, and French onion dip and set off down the winding road to Brattleboro.
Growing up in Halifax, VT, it’s sometimes necessary to leave our minuscule town to go to a slightly bigger town for groceries, restaurants, businesses, and signs of other human life. For the residents of Halifax, this comes down to a polarizing decision: Brattleboro, VT or Greenfield, MA? My decision is always Greenfield. When I was younger, my mom drove me to Greenfield, MA for dance classes 3-4 days a week, and then from my sophomore year on I drove through Greenfield six days a week for school. Let’s be real: the roads are wider, and better maintained, you feel less trapped in by mountainous ledge on one side and a drop off to the river on the other, and you are far less susceptible to getting car sick. Bias or not, the ride to Greenfield is the obvious choice.
Growing up in Halifax, VT, it’s sometimes necessary to leave our minuscule town to go to a slightly bigger town for groceries, restaurants, businesses, and signs of other human life.
As much as I find the ride to Brattleboro frustrating, my experience on the River last night made it worth the twisting, narrow turns. And a note to the wise: a group of women in their 40s and 50s has more fun than any other demographic. The stories ran rampant, from memories of mud bogging on ATVs in the Dominican, to horror stories from work that somehow always ended in laughter.
I hope to one day be as youthful as the ladies I spent last night with.
The sound of the water making way for us, and the feeling of the cool breeze sifting through my hair was relaxing in the best way. It almost seemed that we entered another portal as we floated between the towering bridge above us and it’s watery reflection below.
The conversation meandered from talk of zodiak signs, to whispers of an old carnival ground that had been flooded back in 1938. Every so often we could catch a distant glimpse of rust colored train tracks, or the scaled back of the legendary Loch Ness monster. The evening had a mystical air. We sipped on wine, snacked on a smorgasbord of hummus, crackers, and shrimp, and pointed excitedly to the ducks and geese that we passed by. Kayakers, fishers, and other boaters gave friendly waves that were returned with a smile.
Every so often we could catch a distant glimpse of rust colored train tracks, or the scaled back of the legendary Loch Ness monster. The evening had a mystical air.
I almost thought that the billowing green trees on either side of us were the most beautiful part until that green darkened into a black silhouette and the river caught on fire.
The outline of steeples on Main Street stuck out in dark shadow against the blazing skyline. The water surrounding us burst into flames, as if it were kerosene ignited with the sparks of the sky. We were burning with life, with friends, with summer. Burning with a youthful energy. Perhaps it was not the sky that started the fire, but us, all along.
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