An Obstinate Lot

 

I come from an area of proud tradition

filled with people as tough and as strong

as the seasons that rule it—

Farmers who toiled the rock strewn fields

turning soil to grow their food

learning to make do; to build stone walls

with the rocks they turned each spring.

We forged the rivers, sending lumber

from the northlands to the mills 

 and factories in the south.

We built bridges. 

We built the first navigable canal.

We stood our ground against tyrants and kings.

The "shot heard round the world?"

That was us!
We know that democracy is right,

that oligarchy can never be our course.
We gave birth to founding fathers

and Presidents: John Hancock,

 John Adams, John Quincy Adams

Calvin Coolidge, Franklin Pierce, 

and John F. Kennedy were born here.

Our heroes did not wear capes.

They stood their ground against tyranny.

Ethan Allen, Deborah Sampson, Paul Revere,

just some of the names from our past.

Ordinary people placed in extraordinary circumstances

carving their place in our country’s proud history.
People like Joshua Chamberlain of Maine

who, at 34,  despite  the odds,

led his troops to victory in the battle

of Little Round Top at Gettysburg.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Today I've chosen remind you of just who we are—
We are a tough and obstinate lot, we New Englanders.
We are not afraid to ruffle feathers and go against the grain.

We don’t hold to lies nor cruelty; we grew up around cows

and can smell the bullshit long before we see the bull.
Our countenance is as tough as the hills, the valleys

and the rocky shorelines that we come from.

Our humor is as dry as our August summers.

We stay here not because of the frozen winters

the muddy Springs, the heat of our summers, 

nor even the brief reprieve of autumn.

We stay because we are as a surly lot

as surely a part of this place

as it is a part of us...

and we are family, and like family

we may argue amongst ourselves

but, God forbid, you go after any one of us,

then you face the wrath of all!

Never forget who you are 

Never forget the ones who forged the path you walk.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Image: Early view of Bellows Falls, VT borrowed from Bellows Falls Historical Society page.

 

 

Procrastination!

 

Oh look! A dusting of soft snow!

It falls so gently on the lawn.

I watch the flakes as they alight

to paint the boughs in pristine white.

 

It fills these eyes with such delight!

It purifies the grit and grime;

and brings me back to childhood days

transforms me to a different time.

 

Now old bones ache with winter chill–

Oh, to be that child still!

Those winter days that I recall,

no worries should I slip and fall.

 

I watch here from my warm cocoon

through the frosted window pane

and contemplate if I should wait

to see if snow will turn to rain.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Ode to the Days of Wonder!

 

Dawn breaks, I awaken to find

that overnight new snow has fallen,

coating lawn and trees alike.

It softens harsh lines and, to our delight,

brightens the monotone landscape

with untainted softness and purity.

Even the gray hills, once indistinguishable 

from the clouds above, have donned caps of winter white.

As children, we relished the new-fallen snow

Bundled in warm jackets and snow pants

boots, hats, scarves and mittens, barely able to move,

we would pull our sleds from storage sheds

heading for the nearest hill, cocoa and cookies

awaiting our return. Years pass, and time takes it’s toll.

We no longer see snow as a welcome reprieve

but more of a chore, an obstacle to get past

I miss the days of mittens drying by the heat, 

of rosy cheeks, of less worry and no hurry.

In every adult fraught with concern and responsibility

 lives an inner child yearning to be free.

 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Image One: Three Children Sledding by Vickie Wade, full credit to the artist

Image Two: Photo of author and friends, circa early 1960's

Growing "Stones"

 

The stones were scattered throughout the field...

every Spring another crop 

would rise to the surface again, 

to be meticulously gathered

and stacked along the perimeter

differentiating our land from theirs;

subdividing, eliminating any question

of whose crops or herds belonged where.

How could we know that land that we claimed

was only ours on borrowed time?

The natives here before us knew we didn’t own the land;

the waters nor the air are not here for our command.

We are caught hook, line, and sinker in the follies we believe

taught to think our legacy’s in all we have achieved.

Now those walls become the ghosts

of the farmsteads that have passed...

What we thought might be forever never truly lasts.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Photo by Charlie Parant at Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed written permission.

One of the NaPoWriMo sites offers suggestion to write for Day 2, Not Your Usual Harbinger.

At Sunrise...

In the waking hours, the silent streets

call forth the storied footsteps of our past,

on cobblestones now hidden by concrete.

Awakened now, our past on silent streets—

the wooden wheels, the clip-clop of hoof beats

the village square, the hub where folks amassed.

In these early hours, the silent streets

  call forth the storied footsteps of our past

© Ginny Brannan 2020

NaPoWriMo #19 Recalls my hometown in Vermont.

Image Credit: Anne Collins, Photographer. Used with expressed written permission. Originally shared on the site: Growing Up in Bellows Falls.

Second Image found in historical archives, of same building many years ago.

Murder, Mayhem and the Like

Like a storm, the cloud arises

cast against the fading sky;

voices cackling in the distance

others scream back in reply…

The setting sun calls to the darkness

the answer swift on blackened wing—

while some may write of birds returning.

or rites of nature in the spring—

other folks seek out the dark tales

that speak both strength and suffering…

Stories passed down through the ages,

survivors’ tales of battles fought;

tales of anger and of sorrow

behind the guise that time has wrought.

Inside this gathering of the crows

we'd seek the knowledge they’d bestow,

shared with us on this nocturne

they cite for us this lesson learned:

 To find your way back to the light

   first you must confront the night

© Ginny Brannan

NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 5

On the NaPoWriMo site, their pre-NaPoWriMo prompt was to write something about birds. I have been pecking away at this one for a few days, pun intended, but it has been ruminating inside for  over a month since seeing large flocks of crows in the trees at dusk around the Medical Center where husband was undergoing surgery. I've since learned that these migrating flocks return to Massachusetts yearly, usually in late February - early March, mostly on the eastern side of the state near Lawrence but apparently we are also seeing them now in the Pioneer Valley. The sheer number of them was amazing, and my darker, Edgar Allan Poe side, has always been fascinated by these birds.

Sea Glass

The smell was in the air tonight,

drifting in on an eastern wind

recalling those summers at the Cape.

We’d walk along the shore, collecting

shells and bits of colored glass,

watching the sun wrap itself in threads

of peach and pink and purple and gray

before slipping slowly past the horizon.

A chorus of crickets would be heard,

mixed with raucous laughter that trickled

down from the road and tickled our ears

as cars cruised by, windows open,

searching for relief in the cool night air.

Up the lane colorful lights beckoned to the line

forming outside the ice cream shack,

frosty reprieve on a warm summer's eve.

One of the great unproven laws of physics is

that the closer you get to the beach,

the longer the days seem to stretch.

We’d finally crawl off to bed, our

sunburnt bodies finding cool respite

between soft cotton sheets.

If we listen carefully, we can hear the sound

of the waves kissing the shore; as the

warm breeze rustling through the trees

calls us back to the sea once more.

 © Ginny Brannan 2018

Cape Cod near Harwichport, MA 2016

Top Image: Seamarias/Etsy

Bottom Image by author, taken on Cape Cod.

Watching the River Run

We hear the steady drip, drip, drips

as melting snow turns to rivulets

racing down the mountainside

chasing along road’s edge in steady stream

to join the roaring river below.

What was once a quiet estuary

turns into churning white water

crashing over rocks and boulders

combining with larger waterways

on their quest to mesh with the sea.

We view the rising river

filling inlets and backwashes,

observe scores of riverbank trees

submerged to their knees

awaiting runoff to slow

and surge to recede.

There’s comfort found days like this

in the knowledge that somehow

no matter how much things change

some still remain the same.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 12 NaPoWriMo Challenge was to use Rhetorical Devices of Assonance and Alliteration:

Assonance is a resemblance of sound, particularly vowel sounds, occurring in words of close proximity: i.e. trees, knees, recede

Alliteration: the repetition of a sound, especially a consonant, for rhetorical or poetic effect: i.e. rivulets racing, roaring river, steady stream.

Not too heavy on either, but a small sampling of both.

In the Stillness of the Night

Late winter’s eve and all is still

the lawn lies bathed in silver light—

gray shadows race across the yard

and climb atop the windowsill

to draw my gaze upon the sight.

I stare out to the moonlit night,

across the deck and wooded path

fresh–painted by new fallen snow.

The scene infuses with delight;

this gift inside storm’s aftermath.

Half–buried now, the old birdbath

stands shadowed deep in indigo—

it waits on promise of the spring

when arctic chill has finally passed

and snow gives way to new green grass.

With gratitude, I hedge to go;

tranquility allays my soul…

I turn and feel the warmth within

still basking in the afterglow

of winter’s calm and still repose.

©  Ginny Brannan 2017

When life becomes rote, and frustration grows from being immersed in the same routine—different day, sometimes we need to remind ourselves that peace is still there—within our grasp— if we just take a moment to pause and  enjoy the  stillness and beauty around us.

Off the Wagon

Image: Tom Harty Trapper's Fishcamp and Grill, Oklahoma City

Like a sponge I soak up the rosés  and burgundies,

golden Chambourds, Bourbons and Grand Marniers

the yellow-green Chartreuses and emerald Absinthes

… a sot in need of one. more. shot.

Just a steward in this cabinet of riches,

for six decades imbibing, sampling the goods,

savoring each flavor; knowing that soon

each one sours to brown, 
spilling to ground until gone.

Shaking with chill of withdrawal,

my twelve-step program starts now—

counted by months

until my next binge.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Image: G.Brannan Laurel Lake in Lee, MA

Another One for the Books...

BOOOM!!! BOOM….BOOM….boom…boom….boom…

Living in a valley between two mountains

sound amplifies a hundredfold…

You hear train whistles wailing down the track

long before you ever see the lead engine.

Thunder echoes on forever. And lightening?

Lightening illuminates the whole valley

silhouetting the mountains on both sides

reflecting on the river that divides the two states.

As a child, living here in this town where

Vermont and New Hampshire are interchangeable

I always thought we have the best of both states.

The Connecticut River divides us, but there are bridges—

two in our town, one a few miles to the south,

another twelve or so miles to the north.

Business is conducted on both sides of the river;

family and friends may reside, or work, on either side.

BOOOM!!! BOOM….BOOM….boom…boom…boom…

The townsfolk on my side, the Vermont side, have made

their exodus down to the riverbank this fine summer's eve.

Chairs line the sidewalks along Rockingham and Atkinson Streets,

the parking lots at IGA and the gas station across the way

are filling up with even more of these ‘children of all ages.’

The parking lot of the Dari-Joy—known to the locals as "Joe's"—

is filled to capacity. The yellow neon lights attract all variety of

moths, mosquitoes and other insects— just part of the atmosphere

on this warm July night. Hard to tell who is in line for ice cream

or just milling about before the show, but one thing for sure,

Joe's is doing one heck of a business tonight!

We take our prospective places along the wooden rail

at the top of the bank, eyes focused on the hill across the river.

We cannot see the school on the upper level across the way,

but as we watch, the first trail of light goes up and bursts into

a waterfall of fire! It lights up the sky, then a quick flash, and—

BOOOM!!! BOOM….BOOM….boom…boom…boom…

…the sound ricochets off the mountains and down the valley.

It is followed by another… and another…

Occasionally a loud whistle replaces the boom 

and lingers—seemingly to infinity. 

Down the way a baby cries. Excited children laugh and cover their ears,

as parents and the older folk comparing this display to those of years gone by.

The sprays of fire reflect upon the water; smoke lays heavy in the air,

smell of sulfur drifts downhill and across the river.

We watch as trails of fire are sent skyward one by one,

“ooohing” and “ahhhing” after each colorful explosion.

Suddenly five trails go up at once, followed by five more,

and five more…the Grand Finale!!

The flashes fill the sky, the sound is deafening!!

Surely they must be hearing this in Springfield and Charlestown

to our north, or in Westminster and Walpole to our south.

Spontaneous cheers, whistles and clapping erupt from the crowds.

Another 4^th of July is on the books, and we declare it the best one ever
                                                                                 …until next year!

      

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Image: Lori Larue 2016. Used with expressed permission

Childhood memories of growing up in a small Vermont village on the Connecticut River….
   The image above is looking downriver (south) from the Vermont side toward the village of Bellows Falls.  The bright lights to the right is the Dari Joy, forever "Joes" to me…and beyond that the gas station, the IGA (no longer, now a different business there) and further down the street, our downtown area. The mountain to the left is Fall Mountain on the N.H. side. Our own hills are behind to the right of us in this photo. 

   When I was a child there was a beautiful Arch Bridge spanning the river. Deemed unsafe, it was replaced with the plain single span seen here. And the second bridge, the Vilas Bridge, that connects from the downtown area to NH, a 635 foot concrete span, was also deemed unsafe. Closed since 2009, while VT and NH go back and forth as to who will put up the monies to repair or replace. 

  People would (and still do) line the river bank to see the fireworks displays. Back then they were shot from behind the school on the hill in North Walpole on the 4th. Now, they are done for Old Home Days on the first Saturday in August, and are much larger, the more vivid 'Gucci' kind, shot closer to the river.

...I still hold on to the memories of wonderful childhood 4th's though!

Many thanks to Lori Larue for allowing me to share this beautiful night image of my "hometown" in Vermont!!

Top Image: http://www.bigfoto.com/themes/fireworks/

Synchronicity

Image by John Burk. Used with Permission

I look to the west as setting sun crests

on the Holyoke range, their time worn brow

casting deep shadows upon the Quinetucket,

their doppelgängers mirrored in the still water.

Past these hills lie the Berkshires

and a bit further, the mighty Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk

meanders past Albany while the thick-grown

woodlands of the Adirondacks and Catskills

turn somber in the fading light.

There is magic in these hills;

if you listen carefully you can 

hear the voices of the ancients

murmuring through the trees.

I know you hear them too,

when the wind whistles just so

and the river sings her song.

We really aren’t so different, you and I…

inspired in accordance

by our ever-changing views—

I burn my words in black on white,

then somewhere in the waning light

I'll pass my torch to you.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

I wish to extend my sincerest thanks to photographer John Burk for permitting me to use one of his amazing photos. The image above is called "Connecticut River Oxbow Sunset & Mt. Tom." It captures the essence and beauty of the Connecticut River as I have often seen it. You may find more of his lovely work at http://johnburk.zenfolio.com

***************************************************************************************

*Quinetucket: Reference to the Connecticut River. Per Wikipedia the word Connecticut is a French corruption of the Mohegan word Quinetucket, which means "beside the long, tidal river."  The word "Connecticut" came into existence during the early 1600's, describing the river, which was also called simply "The Great River.

**Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk (Hudson River) per Wikipedia: The Hudson was known as Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk (River that flows two ways) by the Mohican tribe who formerly inhabited both banks of the lower portion of the river.

Mile Markers

Gray chalk hills fade one behind another

until they dissolve into oyster sky.

Ice crystals dance on gelid air,

glisten highway’s edge, and settle

in the crooks of sleeping maples.

Evergreens bend under weight

 of their thick winter shawls.

In spite of its bleakness, we are taken by

the stark frost-coated beauty of it all.

Northbound…

my core senses those timeworn mountains

long before my eyes discern them.

Yet, it is not these ancient mounds

that draw me back, but the folks therein

I long to see—those I love who wait for me.

With each mile passed, the years begin to dissipate

like those hills now veiled in mist and gloam;

my pulse beats faster as this heart anticpates

that final stretch of road that leads me home.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014