What is it, I’ve asked myself over the years, that makes this region of ours so appealing?
Why have so many of my friends and I chosen to make this our home? Why is it that not a day goes by that I don’t literally tell myself, and hear friends saying as well, that we’re so lucky to be here?
Much of the appeal, I believe, has so much to do with a sense of connectedness.
To some extent, despite the best efforts of developers who’d have it otherwise, Franklin County has been slow to grow, especially in an age when the pace of change and intrusion of excess have been kept at bay.
And so we still have (knock wood) a sense of connection to the landscape, to the land, to those we share it all with, complete with the hawks soaring overhead, the deer around us, the cattle and sheep here and there and the rivers, streams and ponds. There’s a critical spaciousness that lets us still grasp the big picture, even at a time when so many grow up with eyes glued on cellphone screens. And as the Conway poet Archibald MacLeish noted, our surroundings are at a scale we can relate to. It’s not grand; everything simply fits.
Still I see kids here with fishing poles, out on bikes, swimming at swimming holes, even selling vegetables at roadside stands. The sounds of fiddle and piano and guitar still pour out from open windows, people still greet neighbors and friends at farmer’s markets, supermarkets, landfills.
I’ll admit that it’s not quite the timelessness I’d have said existed before the Internet began delivering connections that, let’s face it, are more virtual than genuine — yet sure came in handy during our most recent COVID isolation.
Real or imagined, the sense of connectedness I feel with the natural environment and others who seemingly appreciate how fortunate we are to be here, is what I’ve pointed to in “Good Will & Ice Cream,” my second collection of “true tales from extraordinary lives” from writings in this community newspaper, which itself is integral to providing a connective tissue. Like my first collection, “Inner Landscapes,” the new book is about relating to the persistent sense of connection.
No, I’m not ignoring the disagreements and very real problems we have, as all places do. But there’s also a quality of life that’s hard to beat that I believe is born of a deep creativity and resourcefulness that derives from living in communities with primarily town meeting and volunteer-based government.
That connectedness in Franklin County and the hilltowns of Hampshire County and even southern Vermont fosters a collaborative spirit here that supported regional government, which was replaced 25 years ago by a council of governments. That’s been vital in helping our small towns share resources and technical expertise. That collaborative spirit has also helped us address shared housing, solid waste and emergency service needs.
Living at a time when we face a total disconnect, with seemingly insurmountable national and global crises, I constantly find it encouraging to look at the people and stories in our midst: heroes like Paula Green of Leverett, who’s tried to build onto all of our common ideas and ideals; Deb Habib of Orange, Tom and Ben Clark of Deerfield and other farmers, like my neighborhood hero Chip Garbiel, who work so hard to keep us fed; musicians and artists like Montague’s David Kaynor and Barry Moser of Hatfield, who nurture our inner selves; and the self-reliant, determined Yankee caretakers of the land in Bernardston filmmaker Rawn Fulton’s “Root Hog or Die,” inspiring us to look around — and within ourselves — to meet our needs.
Sure, everyplace has its share of citizen pride, and maybe it’s all deserved. Maybe I’m so appreciative because I grew up in soul-less suburbia, and also because we’re so often overlooked as a region. Thankfully, I’d suggest.
Given the realities we appear to be facing, with COVID cases increasing as we head toward autumn and extreme weather hitting us more frequently, we’re so fortunate that we can turn to our sense of place and truly belonging as a genuine resource. Yes, the economy may well become even more stressed. Seemingly deepening political divisions may confound us in solving our deepest challenges as a nation.
But if there’s any place where collaboration can work and we can be inspired by the good will of those around us, I believe it’s right here.
Now retired, Richie Davis was a writer and editor for more than 40 years at the Greenfield Recorder.