“Whose woods are these? I do not know,
the house is in the village, though
She will not see me stopping here
to watch her bread sit near the snow
My big white dog might think it queer
to stop without a market near
between the woods and frozen fields
the best fresh bread of all the year.”
It will always surprise me that I ended up in the country, far from the teeing cities of my life, far from my career, everything normal and familiar to me, far from my work, my editors, my family, and all my memories and friends. I know it was the right decision for me; it changed my life in a transformative way and brought me love and meaning.
It was both terrifying and exhilarating. Lonely and uplifting. Joseph Campbell would call it a hero’s journey to find me. I needed to crack up and rebuild myself. I did it here.
I will always be a refugee here, as I have been a refugee all of my life. But here, I feel more welcome than I have ever felt and feel more at home than ever. I think of the beauty, the openness, the animals, nature, the timeless rituals and habits. I’m not sure how it works, but I needed those things as if I had them in another life as if they were embedded in my genes. I think they were. The country has lifted my soul and stirred the poet inside.
(Above photo. The Covered Bridge tells me I am near the bread and the baker. How cool is that for groceries?)
(My trek for bread began and ended with a drive down Main Street, the heart and soul of my small town, the gateway to everywhere.)
Today, I was reminded why I came. It is bitter cold here. The roads are still icy, and the wind is biting. I was driving to the most beautiful place where I have ever gone to buy bread, the best bread I have ever tasted and the healthiest.
It is made by another newcomer to the country, Kean, who believes fresh bread is a human right.
I agreed and signed up to buy her seed bread weekly for the next month. I plan to keep my monthly subscription, $34 for freshly baked bread sold right by the covered bridge weekly.
To pick up my bread, I go on a Robert Frost trek in the country, not just on a horse-driven buggy but in my Toyota Rav 4 SUV with my Lab Zinnia staring out the window behind me, lost in dog thought.
First, I passed through our beautiful old Main Street, a little different from a few hundred years ago. Then, I drove through streams, farms, and hills.
I saw horses hanging out of their barns in the hills, geese flying overhead, snow covering tree limbs, an intense sun, and baby goats playing in a pasture.
Then, I crossed a covered bridge. I stopped to take a picture. I bought the right camera, my monochrome.
This was near the end. I came across my bread waiting for me in a metal tub in front of a beautiful country house with a river streaming right behind; the rush of the water made music to my ears, something I could never have heard in the city I lived in.
This was a landmark journey; I have never bought bread by going to a covered bridge over a beautiful stream.
(The bread I bought is different; it has a feel and a taste that is new to me, and that makes my breakfast special.)
“She gives her collar a mighty shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
the only other sound is the rush
of racing water and heavy flakes
The only other sound sound’s the sound
Of easy wind and white, thick flake.
The bread is lovely, dark, and steep
But I have miles to go before I sleep
And bread to eat before I sleep,
And a post to write before I sleep.”
(Thanks again, Robert Frost)
(I kept thinking of my ride as a kind of a poem, a serenade, everywhere I looked there was something beautiful to see. Was this really about bread? I don’t eat much bread; usually, it isn’t that important to me, or so I thought.)
I put my money in a cloth bag and took my bread in a cloth bag with my name on it. I took a small jar of raw honey that the baker’s husband made. I took a focaccia bread for Maria; I can only eat a bit. I never saw the baker, and she never saw me, which gave the bread run even more mystery and feeling.
I had to walk through the snow to get my bread and carry it to the car in a beautiful cloth (which I return every week.)
Then, I drove home, wondering if my bread could really be bought in such a beautiful place. The smell of the bread had me aching for a piece.
Before last week, I had never bought bread anywhere except in a bakery or market. The strangeness of it – and the beauty – didn’t hit me until today.
The sun sank as I passed the farm and trees and drove home just as Maria was feeling the sheep and donkeys and preparing to drive to Bennington, Vt., for her belly dancing class, which she loves dearly.
Together, we tasted the bread, shook our heads at how good it was, sliced it up, put some aside for dinner when she got home, and put some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer. I’ll have enough fresh, heavily seeded bread for the week.
Oddly, I only eat bread once or twice weekly, Maria the same. It’s special.
And then, following Monday, I’ll retake this ride on the same path. And bring home more bread. It’s about more than food.
_____
The Wild Winds Coldly Blow
“The night is darkening around me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
.Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.”
— Emily Bronte
____
Riding Through The Snow, By Robert Frost
“Whose woods these are, I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Once again, Thanks Robert Frost, for your inspiration.
Wonderful piece of writing—thank you.
Thanks Tru, a lovely message..
Thank you Jon for this beautiful post, the photographs, winter trees , Frost poetry, bridge to bread, the taste, your journey through this day, a sense of place.
Thanks Claudia
There’s nothing in the world any better than good bread. Not the stuff on the shelves in the supermarket, but bread made by a real person and filled with whole grains and other healthy additions, like nuts and seeds. To go on a beautiful drive through the countryside to get it makes it even better. Thanks for sharing your journey.
Thanks Barbara, it was a joy to go get the gread…
Good bread sustains us. I haven’t eaten store bought bread in 30+ years, ever since I learned how to bake bread. In the past two years I’ve been branching out into more of the European breads that I grew up with. I’ve gotten very good at making sourdough rye. Last year I made a 2 pound loaf of rye as a thank you to my Polish neighbors for cleaning up several inches of wet heavy snow. Our snowblower had broken. They have 3 young strong men in their house, so it wasn’t much hard work for them. As a thank you I made a big loaf of rye which they loved.
We often trade favors like that.
Having good bread and neighbors are priceless.
Good neighbors, thanks Holly
Thank you, Jon, for this wonderful post. I can almost smell that bread. There is nothing better, than a country road, and home baked bread.
🙂
My son bakes his own bread (major anxiety).. love your insight and sharing your beautiful & lovely piece of the country. I get it… I was born a few miles from Red Cloud, Nebraska (Willa Cather’s home and inspiration for her books. I lived 25 years in Nebraska & live in rural N.Y. near Brockport, NY by the Erie Canal for 45 years. How the land transforms us in our aging life.
Neat message, Teri, thank you..