Bellows Falls
Over the past six weeks, my wife has made several trips to Grafton Vermont meeting with groups of cloth artist for a retreat at Frances’ house; one of the artist. This past weekend our family visited Francis and her dear Fritz. Francis is a fabulous host with a beautiful home — the kind one is comfortable at stepping through the door.
The journey to Grafton accounts for a fair amount of its appeal. The roads we traveled snake along rivers and their valleys and passing through small settlements. En route we went through the town of Bellows Falls; the old mill town sits unassumingly along the Saxton River.
It was mid-day and busy when we entered Bellows Falls on our way to Grafton. Main Street looked exceedingly broad, and I wondered how it is without cars bordering the sidewalk. I couldn’t think of more befitting way to say goodbye to an unusually challenging month, so at 5:45a on the last day on the last Sunday in April I headed down to Bellows Falls.
If I had to identify what I like about turn of the century industrial settings, I can attribute it to my thinking that craftsmanship and quality were trademarks of the day. I sense the spirit of days gone by — its hardships and victories. I don’t know if lingering souls of the past walk down these same streets that fascinate me now but if they do I invite them to walk with me.
