“Morning has broken” by Curt Welling, Norwich
Welcome to “Dear Daybreak”, a weekly Daybreak column. It features short vignettes about life in the Upper Valley: an encounter, a wry exchange, a poem or anecdote or reflection… Anything that happened in this region or relates to it and that might strike us all as interesting or funny or poignant.
Want to submit your own Dear Daybreak item? Just go here!
Dear Daybreak:
Recently, I took my car in to have her new snow tires put on. While I waited, I had planned to visit the library, just across the street, but discovered it didn't open until 10. Lucky for me an eatery that I've intended to eat at since I moved to the Upper Valley many years ago was just down the street.
After having breakfast there, I would describe it as a Cheers-type place, where everyone knows your name, and coffee flows instead of beer. Being November there was a bit of camouflage clothing—jacket, pants, cap—and some talk of hunting and wardens. One waitress served the 12 tables in the place, and Shyrl took orders at the counter where five old wooden stools were in frequent use by diners, many reading the local newspaper. Tim handled the tasks of busing tables, refilling coffee, pointing out open seating, etc. He and the waitress (whose name I never got because she was so busy) had the most prolific and sincere usage of "thank yous" I've heard in a long time.
A regular walked in, wearing a veteran's ballcap and using a cane, and he received a hug from the waitress. Another regular soon joined him and the waitress asked, "What do you want for breakfast, honeybun?" (He ordered scrambled eggs with a hotdog and a sausage.) She called me sweetie upon delivering the best French toast I've had in the Upper Valley—the taste and the price were pure perfection.
Another regular approached the entrance and by the time he reached an open table the waitress greeted him there with a big hug and a hot cup of coffee. It was a wonderful place to experience community at its finest, add some hope to my bucket, and wait an hour for my car.
— Lori Harriman, Thetford
Dear Daybreak:
I have lived on the Beaver Meadow Road in Sharon for almost 50 years. We were a commune in 1975 called The Land. It was called that because that was the only name we could agree on. Before a group of us bought this property, it was owned by the Wells family. Sometime in the ‘50s or ‘60s it was a ski area called Beaver Hill, with a rope tow powered by a Model T Ford motor. The motor, some of the posts, ropes, and car rims used as pulleys, were still here when we, the hippies, arrived. The photo below was one of two signs that were put out roadside to announce the ski area.
— Matt Cardillo, Sharon
Dear Daybreak:
For several years, I shined shoes on Lebanon Street in Hanover. No charge and all tips were donated to the Upper Valley Haven. Each year, I would take around $1,000 plus to them.
My most memorable client pulled up in a pickup truck, got out and walked toward me. She had work jeans on, with leather boots. She looked like she had just come from a construction job.
She saw my shoeshine sign and looked at me sitting next to my shine rig. She was puzzled. "Do you shine work boots?" "Yes, no charge, tips to the Haven."
"Can you shine mine?” she asked. “Sure,” I responded. “Climb up on my shine rig."
"No thanks. I'm getting my hair done upstairs. But I'll leave my boots with you."
She gave me her boots and walked inside the building in her socks. I cleaned and then shined her shoes. They were in rough shape. Cuts in the leather here and there. Spots scraped bare all over. I did my best to clean them, put on a creamy leather product, then finally some brown shine.
In about an hour, she came out, still in her socks, and put on her boots. They looked a lot better. I’d done the best I could, I told her, but the leather was so worn and dry that she would need to get them shined again in three or four months.
She looked at me and smiled broadly. "Perfect! My doctor told me yesterday that I have pancreatic cancer and only three months to live."
I was shocked into silence. Dumbfounded, I watched her walk proudly back to her truck in her well-shined boots, get in, and drive away. Now that's a courageous woman!
— Neil Castaldo, Hanover