Welcome to “Dear Daybreak”, a weekly Daybreak column. It features short vignettes about life in the Upper Valley: an encounter, some wry exchange with a stranger or acquaintance… Anything that happened in this region or relates to it and strikes a contributor as interesting or funny or poignant—or that makes us appreciate living here.
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Dear Daybreak:
A few weeks ago something broke through a window of our chicken coop and snatched all the chickens that were left. Well, all but one poor lonely bird—that one I let free range for an hour later that day (I felt bad for it, you know. It was the lone survivor, and I wanted to give it a nice afternoon) and, I kid you not, I came inside for 5 minutes and in that time something snatched it. So we are now chickenless. The craziest part: we had two 50-lb bags of chicken feed—both missing without a trace. I found them in the forest about 50 yards away, but there was no feed on the ground between them and the coop, meaning the bags were carried whole without ripping along the rocky ground.
So we concluded that the only thing that could've done this is a particularly nefarious bear. On the bright side, I counted our troubles as over, given that the chickens were no longer.
But just now I was outside and heard a noise nearby. I turned around, and there was a bear at the coop again! I guess it got hungry again even after eating our 4 chickens whole not too long ago—but there are no chickens or feed left! I snatched some photos before scaring it off. I also got a video of it trying to bend and break the screen door to the chicken run—again, to what end?? It already got all the food!
— Jacob Chalif, Woodstock
Dear Daybreak:
The summer of 2009 was a rainy one, and I felt badly for the soggy looking Appalachian Trail (AT) hikers trudging across the Ledyard Bridge.
My daughter was working as a barista at Umpleby's in Hanover trying to earn as much money as she could before leaving for college. Over dinner she would regale me with funny stories from work: finicky coffee orders, quirky regular customers, temperamental espresso machines. I savored this time, relishing her presence at my table, already feeling her impending departure. One morning an AT hiker, looking drenched and discouraged, was at the cafe's door when she unlocked it. He was grateful for the hot coffee, which I think was complimentary to hikers at the time. He nursed his coffee and refills over several hours waiting for the rain to stop, and shared that he had recently retired, and was doing the AT alone as the start of this new phase of his life. He knew he had a very hard section ahead of him. It made an impression on her, and we spoke some about the different motivations for taking on such a solitary challenge, how it could be lonely but also allow time for self-reflection.
The final weeks of summer sped by and soon we were packing up the car for the drive to Lewiston, Maine. I felt wistful, knowing from experience that once she crossed this long-anticipated threshold to college, there would be a shift to independence that would forever change her relationship to home and to me. And that was a measure of success, and as it should be, but it didn't change that internal maternal tug. So, after the car was unpacked, the dorm room set up, the bed made, I left her smiling amid her roommates, and tearfully made my way back to Hanover, taking the longer route over the White Mountains and reflecting on this paradox of motherhood, where success can bring both joy and pain.
Those first weeks I waited patiently for her sporadic phone calls, brimming with details of her friends, classes, and activities. She had joined the Bates College Outing Club and talked excitedly about an overnight trip planned for the weekend, where they would camp at the base and then hike Mount Katahdin, Maine's tallest mountain and the AT's northern terminus. The weekend approached with unsettled weather, but she sent a quick email that they were heading north and would decide the next morning about attempting to summit. Despite my mounting anxiety, I suppressed the urge to dispense a litany of precautions. It was no longer my role to advise about the myriad of things that could go wrong with an ascent when poorly prepared; she was experienced and was with experienced hikers. She had left “my nest".
I kept busy that Sunday, limiting myself to checking the Maine weather just once, noting that while somewhat cloudy, it was a cool and dry day there. She called late in the evening, back at campus, and eager to share the details of the challenging hike to the summit. "You won't believe this mom, but just as I was approaching the top, a man was coming down towards me right after he summited. I didn't recognize him at first, until he said, 'hey you're the bakery girl'! I gave him a hug and congratulated him. It was so cool to see him finishing his hike".
What were the odds their paths would cross at that moment, at that place, 5000 feet above sea level, over 300 miles from where they met on a rainy day in Hanover, 2100 miles from where he started his journey, both marking new chapters in their lives? It felt like a sign, soothing my aching heart. I slept well that night.
— Carolyn Murray Cravero, Hanover
Dear Daybreak:
I was out for my daily walk and came upon the Ray School field day. An entire day outside playing games. It was usually the last day of school so it was extra special. The kids were all running around, playing, having fun, laughing and exercising...physical education.