#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Sign on the Athol History Trail
Today, after my client and Israeli group, I hopped in my car with a water bottle and sneakers and drove to Athol. It was a fairly spontaneous journey, but it had been on my mind this week to visit and see a place I had not yet seen. I believe there will be a poem for my manuscript about this place; I’ve been doing research and I knew approximately where the spot was, looking on a map, but wasn’t sure if it was easily sighted. This is a spot on the Miller’s River, which runs through Athol, where there was a famous crossing of Native Americans to escape the colonists who were chasing them after members of the Narragansett, Nipmuc & Wampanoag tribes raided a settlement in the town of Lancaster and captured Mary Rowlandson, a prominent member of the town. Rowlandson became famous for a narrative she wrote about her captivity. So, I wanted to see the spot where the tribe members escaped the colonists, Rowlandson a prisoner, crossing by raft. I had no trouble finding the sign and parked at a nearby meadow, hoping I could get through the thick, uncut growth to the river from that spot, but had to turn around and walk up the street instead, over a guardrail and down a slope. There was the river. it was very quiet and shallow. The crossing in 1676 was early March. But I tried to imagine it anyway. Two thousand Native Americans got across here. Rowlandson too. I have a lot of notes and just wanted to be on the spot. I drove straight back. The house is quiet. I swam early this morning at Farm Pond, a strong swim on the very flat water. I planted three of four hydrangea and none of the juniper. Everything had to be watered and it was pleasant to be outdoors. I have had a picture on my desktop for a week. When I woke up, the poem came. A first draft and I liked it a lot. A strange thing happened as I walked through the meadow toward what I hoped would take me to the river. It was more of a deer path than a human path, not mowed at all and not walked on much. A goldfinch flew to a branch, and coming from the railroad tracks, two teenagers, a tall boy, a short girl. He looked at me. I said hi to them both and he just said, “Sorry. . . sorry. . .” and they walked by me. Whatever he was apologizing for was unseen by me.
