Ascutney morning a few years back, by Neal Bastas
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:
As part of the Upper Valley Indie Bookstore Day celebration at Cover to Cover Books, I was stationed outside as The Typing Poet. Customers could request a poem, which I then wrote on the spot for them—with a fifty-year-old Smith-Corona typewriter.
First, I’d ask each person a few questions: what was their most magical place? What emotion were they feeling at the moment? What were they hoping for?
Then, I’d type away until I felt the poem was finished, pulling it out of the typewriter with a flourish to read aloud to the subject. Reactions were unexpectedly emotional in some cases: a few people were moved to tears, and one man hugged me.
A few requests were more specific. A woman wanted a poem about her friend who had died the week before. When I asked her to tell me more about him, she said, “He was a good man. He had white hair.” That was a challenge!
Another person wanted a poem on the subject of her nonfiction book, which is bridging the political divide in this country. I called that poem Indivisible.
Two sets of couples asked for a poem for both of them at once. So I took each one aside to ask what they loved about their partner and wrote a joint poem. It was gratifying to see them smiling, holding hands and their poem as they walked down the street.
All in all, I think it was a very good day for books and words and people and poetry. The only downsides for me were a sore wrist and beat up fingernails. Small price for big rewards.
— Robin Dellabough, Norwich
Dear Daybreak:
Center of the Universe Road
The farmer down the road has made his final run,
his tractor laboring up the hill
to spread manure on a neighbor’s field.
And a blatting four-wheeler,
careening past the house and down through the woods,
has coughed its last backfire for the evening.
I sit on my porch gazing south,
New Hampshire hills on my left
Mount Ascutney on my right,
soft-washed purple in the distance.
The misty Connecticut River Valley below.
Evening breezes dance across the meadow
where two young deer venture out to graze.
The 18-year-old single malt scotch
rolls around in my mouth and slides down my throat
warming my spirits and mellowing everything.
In the background,
Gary Burton and Chick Corea caress the tune “I Loves you, Porgy.”
Dusk slips over the horizon.
— Mark Boutwell, written from the front porch on Center of Town Road, Hartland, VT
Dear Daybreak:
There is so much to grapple with when you lose a beloved pet. The loss is profound. The house is quieter now—no clicking toenails on the floor, no jingling dog tags, no rhythmic lapping of water from the bowl.
What I didn’t expect was how much I would miss her presence. Not just her companionship, but her compassion. She made me a better person—more loving, more patient, more joyful.
Now it’s just my husband and me. And if I’m being honest, we’re both a little cranky. Without her as the buffer, there’s nothing softening the edges.
And there’s plenty to feel cranky about. Sending our girl over the rainbow bridge sits firmly at the top of the list. Add to that the daily absurdities that seem designed to fray every last nerve, and the weather—sun one day, snow the next. What are we even doing?
Meanwhile, I’m in the thick of a huge project. Producing a musical is not for the faint of heart. There are a million moving parts, endless details, constant decisions. Even in the best of circumstances, it’s a challenge. It feels monumental.
Still, we press on. And thankfully, we don’t do it alone. So many people are stepping in, showing up, helping carry the load. I am grateful for that.
We buried Smooch in our field and plan to plant a wildflower garden around her. I like knowing she’s close. I like imagining that something beautiful will grow there—something that carries a bit of her spirit forward. Maybe some of that gentle devotion will find its way back into me, soften me again.
When my father died, we sprinkled some of his ashes on the Dartmouth Green. He was fiercely loyal to Dartmouth, and it felt right that he would rest in a place he loved so deeply. I still drive by and say, “Hi Dad.”
I imagine I’ll do the same with Smooch’s garden.
But for now, I’ll just weep and miss her.
— Perry Allison, Thetford
