Cold Case/3

It was late afternoon when I started the drive home. From Amherst, Massachusetts to Derby, Vermont, north along the Connecticut River past the towns of Brattleboro, Springfield, Hanover, to St. Johnsbury, and then away from the river continuiung north to within miles of the Quebec border.

The valley carved by the Connecticut is not nearly so grand as the famous gorges of the West, or even the Palisades along the Hudson. But in May, the trees and fields are the freshest of green, and apple and wild cherry blossoms provide perfect accents.

The hills are gentle, dotted with small farms. Fences surround pastures, and even from miles away, the black and white holsteins munch their hay. Everywhere I looked was like a Grandma Moses painting, beautiful and primitive.

The oldest villages have houses dated in the late 1700's, but as I go farther north, the dates tell the story of migration. At the end of my road, the oldest houses, and the oldest gravestones will date to the 1820's.

From any point I could see a church steeple, white and directed upward toward the God and heaven these people knew and depended upon for survival and comfort through harsh times. The spirituality of the settlers was visibly displayed in their white churches, but the spirits of the river people were much older and less visible. God, to the European settlers was a loving and forgiving being. Was the God that watched over the Path of Life so loving?

Along the highway I saw panoramic vistas of the River. Occasionally the small hydroelectric dams would hold back the water, creating flat ponds whose mirror-like reflections captured the light clouds and blue sky. Occasionally bridges would stretch across the water. I was traveling against the Path of Life, following the migration of my ancestors, and I couldn't help wonder how much had changed.

Near Thetford, a deer jumped into the road ahead, and then jumped off to the other side, disappearing into the brush. A short-tailed hawk stepped off its perch in the bare branches of a dead elm, soaring and searching. And then an Owl, seldom seen in the daylight, swooped down into a field to snatch an unseen morsel. I found my brain racing, and my history and that of the Hamonassetts, and Dr. Green and John Stanton were all beginning to feel intertwined in some way that I couldn't fathom.

In one week I would have a chance to explore further, working side by side with Dr. Green, and this felt to me very important.