We went to visit Neil and Chloe!
We went to the river!
We got wet!
Iris poses as a mermaid—
Akiva poses as a merlad—
my merkids—
Archive for the ‘LaPlatte Nature Park’ Category
Iris Turns Seven (LaPlatte Nature Park)
For Iris’s seventh birthday, I take my goofballs to one of our favorite old stomping grounds in Shelburne, Vermont.
Iris’s first winter, I carried her all over the LaPlatte Nature Park. Those were the days! Down at the river, someone had nailed a rudimentary handrail to a log. I crossed the log often, trusting the worn crampons on my old army surplus snowshoes to keep me from sliding off the log into the river as I gently touched the handrail to steady my balance, sleeping baby on my back.
The log was washed out with the spring floods, so the same someone decided he’d like to try his hand at building a suspension bridge. It was pretty good, but he got in trouble for doing so without a permit, so he had to dismantle it. I blogged about the incident on June 1st, 2014.
So the next winter, Joplin (that’s his name) built a bridge of sticks and posted a sign, “river crossing for squirrels foxes and other small mammals,” just to let people know that the bridge was NOT intended for them to use. Wink wink. Who has ever heard of needing a permit to build a squirrel bridge? I blogged about the incident on January 26, 2015.
I met Joplin the summer of 2016. He told me of his intentions to raise money and find some budding engineers to build a permissible suspension bridge. I stayed up to date with his goings-on, but did not partake in anything other than walking in the woods. The following year, he built a new small mammals bridge, as small bridges do have the habit of wandering downstream in spring floods.
We had sold the house by the time work begun on the bridge. For Iris’s seventh birthday, we visited Joplin’s suspension bridge for the first time. It is a troll bridge. I love it! I miss you sorely, LaPlatte Nature Park.
The sign reads (with some punctuation edits):
One day a troll who lived in a mountain shouted: “There’s a cow bellowing!”
Seven years later, the troll who lived across the valley answered: “Couldn’t it just as well be a bull as a cow?”
Another seven years passed before the troll in a third mountain, nearby, screamed, “If you two don’t keep quiet and stop this commotion, I’ll have to move!”
The End.
Laplatte
There will be a last time that we pass between these trees.
And there will be a last time that we walk among the flowers.
There will be a last time that we wade across this river
and wander uninhibited amongst the ferns for hours.
We miss you.
Which is the way to faerie-land?
These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
—Jessica Rose Shanahan
Nov. 14, 2017
The sweetest big sister in the world: far side of the river.
Summer on the river. (Favorite spot.)
We walk into the woods on the far side.
This is my little girl.
She does not remember a time before Akiva.
Tho she does get the feeling she used to have her mommy all to herself.
I cannot imagine the lonesomeness of being an introverted only child.
There is no thing that my parents ever gave me better than siblings.
Look! Two!
May they always be together,
& never walk alone.
Uncle Dan Visits LaPlatte Circle
Dan came for a visit. We walked in the woods. I took some photos, but I liked how the woods looked better when it was pouring rain out. These ones are just blah.
