Full-time samurai and lucky for us, part-time poet, Mizuta Masahide, wrote these words 500 years ago, but their relevance has not diminished, not even a little.

Now I Can See the Moon

It started like all those other magical Vermont days that came before it. The tender month of May, so full of potential, so full of the promises and anticipation of the approaching summer. In Vermont, May is gentle. May is benevolent after the long, dark, skin-biting assault of winter. She brings with her flowers and newfound hours of daylight and warmth and new babies in the fields and forests. If the calendar year represents the span of a romance, the twelve months the arc from the first spark of interest in January, to the warm, comfortable companionship in December, then May would be the first, chaste kiss.

This far north the sun comes up well before six in late May, and with it, the birdsong. The clover has started to carpet the meadows and there is no perfume in the world to rival the sweetness of the clover of Vermont. Though not religious, I do however believe in karma and the balance of the universe, so every night before I fall asleep in my bed in Vermont and every morning before I open my eyes, I say thank you to the cosmos and to the divine confluences that brought me here. I don’t think most souls find their home, but mine has. I can’t wait to get out of bed in the morning, the house still and quiet and all mine, for a precious hour or two. I grab a cup of coffee and head outside, where the new light of the rising sun sets the meadows and hay fields ablaze with golden light. To hear the wind tease the meadow-song out of those fields; to smell the rich earth, and the clover and the cows.

The comely, gentle contours of the Champlain Valley, once the site of an immense inland sea that stretched from Canada to Alabama, were lovingly carved by the retreating glaciers of the last great ice age. In its wake, the nearly boundless Laurentide Ice Sheet, which covered a million square miles, created the now familiar landscape, until at last, it made its sluggish withdrawal nearly 20,000 years ago. In its place it left behind low rolling hills and rich, fertile soil. Our small ‘gentleman’s farm,’ sitting on 50 of those pastoral acres was located in the tiny, humble hamlet of Salisbury. Addison County is textbook Vermont – incredibly quaint villages with steepled white churches, tidy farmhouses, often a hundred years old or more and ancient barns — weathered and worn, surrounded by pastures dotted with grazing cows. And always, set against the background of the Green Mountains to the East or the more dramatic Adirondacks, across the Lake to the West.

Not the affluent, artfully dressed-down version of what Vermont should look like, that is de riguer in the moneyed villages surrounding of Burlington or Manchester — Salisbury feels true and as genuine as the maple collected in sap buckets, or the immense wheels of local cheddar bound in cloth. The two constants, pastures and sky, infinitely stretching out in all directions, making you feel small, and safe. Home to just 1,100 souls, we were fortunate enough to swell their ranks each summer for ten glorious weeks or so, and then again in the winter for just over a month. This was our ‘home leave house,’ our home away from Singapore, our toehold in the US, and we adored it. Our nearest neighbors, all a scant mile away, were not visible from any window, in any season. It accommodated our young family and our weird and wonderful schedule of comings and goings, provided open vistas and open possibilities, and fit us exactly right. The wee farmhouse on Leland Road was a strange, idiosyncratic house; really two dwellings built circa 1800 that had been co-joined sometime later. The layout was awkward, the rooms too small, the basements terrifying — we loved it for its quirks and for the breathing room and peace it gave us.

In addition to the house, the property included a lovely, little chicken coop we fixed up a bit and made into a playhouse for the kids; a leaning, dangerous pole barn, suitable for parking derelict cars and nothing else; and, sitting magnificently 50 feet or so from our back door, an immense, venerable old barn. Three stories high and dwarfing the house by comparison, its lines were still true, its slate roof still sound though 170 winters had passed since it was built. It was a gorgeous heap of a thing, the tallest structure on the landscape for miles, weathered and wonderful, soaring high against the sky. The inside was a cathedral-like, dark and cavernous — redolent of the past lives spent in toil, of the hundreds of animals and humans living and dying in this space.

In 1997, a job change in Singapore gave us the opportunity to move into the kitchy, quaint house for 6 months or so, while a new position was secured and we could move back to Asia. And so, it was during this time, starting in December of 1996 that our little family, the children just 4, 5 and 7, dug our roots in a little more permanently in Salisbury. We enrolled the kids in school, we got a puppy, we dug in. We also used that time to add some personal touches to our little farm and not only spruce the interior of the house up with fresh paint, but also complete a thorough renovation of the barn’s interior. We enlisted the expert skills of two local carpenters — John, an overalled bear of a man, whose family ties reached back to the founding of Salisbury and whose magnificent beard was sturdy enough to hold pencils, among other handy implements. And Peter, who by this time had become a good friend. We were introduced to Peter a year earlier through our house painters, married couple, Tom and Wanda. Peter didn’t mind building out the new window seat amid a sea of Legos and Polly Pockets, or replacing the roof with the help of three-year old Leah. While Nick and Alex were frittering away their time at Salisbury Central School, Leah was busy helping to install the new standing seam on the lower roof, dressed not at all appropriately in a pink tutu.

With the extensive interior renovation to shore up support beams and reinforce the floors of the barn completed, we moved as much out of the house as possible to allow Tom and Wanda the space to paint the interior in a relatively uncluttered environment. Artwork, TVs, VCRs, stereos, hundreds of CDs, books, photos albums, toys, clothes and furniture — were all packed up and temporarily moved to the barn and joined the snowmobiles, kayaks, sailboats, gardening equipment and the tools that never left.

On that gorgeous Sunday morning in May, I woke up early like I usually do. Today was going to be a busy day. We had a full house, best to get a head start. So I started the coffee maker and set out to make good use of the tortuous time it took to brew. As the first light was breaking over the eastern meadows, I headed out to the chicken coop where our seasonal guest, an elderly rabbit belonging to the Frahers, awaited fresh water, clean hay and a few kind words. But no, her rigid posture and telltale stillness indicated my task for the morning would require not hay, but a shovel. Resigned, I set to work. I dug a hole behind the coop and I quietly wrestled the large cage through the narrow doorway. Being both stoic and squeamish, I wasn’t going to actually touch this dead bunny, that was just too gruesome. So I opened the door to the cage and I tipped it toward the hole. Nothing happened, she didn’t budge. I tipped it again, I shook it a little. Nothing. What the hell? Violently now I shook the cage but still she stayed put. Setting it down with a sweaty grunt, I examined the situation more closely than I wanted to — two of her wee incisors were caught around the wire cage. So I screwed up my courage, as the sun rose magnificently in hues of gold and salmon, and released her tiny teeth from the cage and their purchase in the mortal world and slid her easily into her last resting place. A few shovelfuls of dirt, a few perfunctory pats with the back of the shovel and at last, the deed was done. And all before coffee and 6:00am. “Well” I thought to myself, “your day can only get better”.

The house still blissfully quiet, steaming mug in hand, I checked the dress — a tasteful, understated white linen affair (lacking garish but popular embellishments), to see if it needed pressing. I inspected the flowers in the fridge, still fresh. Our Alexandra, if not glowing with religious avidity, would look beautiful on her First Communion, swathed in white with a wreath of flowers in her flaxen hair. But the universe wasn’t quite done toying with us quite yet. When she came downstairs that morning, one gorgeous green eye was completely swollen shut with a big, red, ugly stye. Damn.

No matter. We got ourselves all dressed up, Nick in a bow tie, Leah in a smocked dress, a satin ribbon in her hair. We patiently organized the in-laws and kissed Cab goodbye, just a puppy in May of 1997, and headed to St. Mary’s in Middlebury with time to spare. The ceremony went well enough, we took the obligatory photos, discreetly avoided close-ups of our tiny Cyclops, ate a celebratory brunch and headed home with a real sense of accomplishment when it was over. The bustle of the day continued at home, with the flurry of activity that accompanies the familiar rhythm of our days – hellos and then, goodbyes. First the in-laws packed up and left, and then with a commotion of hugs and luggage and last minute kisses, Robert. On his way back to Asia, we were all aware this separation would be a long one, and those were always tough. The long, long day was at last over, and it was just me and the kids and the puppy nestled into our serene little farmhouse. After baths and bedtime stories, I fell exhausted into bed and readied myself for a well-deserved sleep, it had been a day.

I woke with a start. Shouting. A man’s voice, shouting. His voice alarmed, panicked. And violent banging, somewhere close by. And another sound, strange, foreign. A low rumbling, further off. “The barn’s on fire, get out of the house!” Bam! Fully awake now, the first thing I noticed was the light coming through the small eyebrow windows of the bedroom was bright orange. Bam! I heard splintering wood and more shouting. I remember in that split second making the decision to run down the stairs by myself and leave the children, still sleeping in their beds. There he was — the man who had broken the back door down, a stranger whose name I still do not know, whose face I can’t recall. I must have called 911 and then I called Peter, who had politely ended our last conversation with a perfunctory ‘call me if you need anything’. I dialed the number and heard my own voice, detached and wooden: ‘Peter, the barn’s on fire’. By the time he arrived 10 minutes later, the fire had consumed at least half of the structure and everything in it. Months of his painstaking artistry, destroyed in the time it takes to watch an episode of Law & Order. I tracked down Robert at his hotel and broke the bad news, glad for once he wasn’t home. The fire was now immense, a conflagration bright and beautiful which sent flames hundreds of feet high and swirling, dancing sparks on billowing clouds of smoke into the starry night. Our very own living Van Gogh, over the humble fields of Salisbury.

The house was not in immediate danger. The wind was mercifully calm that night. And so very long ago, our barn was sited near a water source, at a distance from the house, not to provide fresh air to the human residents, but to the four-legged ones. Despite the distance, when the fire trucks arrived they sprayed the house with great gushes of water as a safeguard against any sparks. Great billows of steam rose off our beloved little house, the exterior hot to the touch. Neighbors began to arrive from all over, people I recognized, people I didn’t. They were all unfailingly kind. The couple up the hill next door, woke the kids and wrapped them in quilts and made them comfortable on the back porch. I still have a few of the red Solo cups they brought over that night, since fighting fires is thirsty work. And something else I am forever grateful for — despite trying to maintain two homes while our mail chased us around the globe, sometimes for weeks, coupled with my somewhat lax bookkeeping — I was able to lay my hands on our homeowner’s policy within minutes. I let out a small, sustained breath as I realized it was paid up, and relief washed over me from the roots of my hair to my toes. I called our agent around midnight and despite the time or it being a Sunday, he joined the crowd that had gathered on Leland Road.

We watched as the volunteer fire departments from five different towns controlled the fire as best they could. There was no hope of saving the structure or its contents, containment was their only objective. Loud blasts punctuated the steady din as the gas tanks of chain saws, lawn mowers, snow mobiles and dinghy engines exploded one by one. The kids dosed off in their cozy, little nests as we adults vacillated between animated conversation spiked with gallows humor and stone-faced, somber reverence. At some point that night, every one entertained their darkest thoughts of what if. With a crashing crescendo, the immense slate roof gave way and collapsed three stories and there was a collective gasp and reflexive recoiling from the crowd watching.

After a few hours, the contents of the barn nearly spent, the flames at last began to subside. The crowd began to break up then too, Mr. Insurance Agent went home, as did Peter and then neighbors on the hill. I put the kids and the puppy to bed. One last crew of volunteer fire fighters were left, their hoses surging onto the void that had once been the barn and an acre of meadow scorched black. Then at last, it was over. It was 3:00am and the fire was officially out, though the entire side yard was smoldering like an active caldera. A soot-faced fireman told me not to worry, crews would stop by every hour or so to check on things and continue to douse the lawn and the wrecked barn, a skeleton now of black, ancient beams. I curled up, not in bed, but on the small couch in the living room where I had the best view of the burn site, and I fell immediately into a troubled, fitful sleep.

I remain forever grateful to the good Samaritan who broke the door down and undoubtedly saved our lives, and to Peter and our neighbors and Mr. Insurance Agent who provided support, just by being there. To the firefighters, the majority of whom were volunteers, who worked so hard even though they had to show up to day jobs in just a few hours. I’m thankful too, that Robert wasn’t there to see it, hearing about it was bad enough. And, I’m glad, that as I dosed off on the couch, my hair and clothes reeking of smoke, that I didn’t know then what I know now. That a few hours earlier, while the fire still raged, Peter was asked to move the family minivan for the second time that night. Originally parked next to the barn, the first time was to keep it out of the immediate danger from the fire and then later, at the fire crew’s request, further on to the lawn to make way for more fire trucks. When he did, jostling and bumping along the rutted grass, the headlights briefly caught the face of a young man, in his 20s, quietly watching the blaze at a discreet distance from behind a tree. By the time Peter parked the car and approached, the arsonist had disappeared soundlessly into the night.

The day after, ponderings and popcicles.

Journal Entry from May 25th, 1998

It has been one week since I woke up to shouting and strange orange light. It was the barn. Our beautiful barn burnt to the ground in a few short, terrifying hours. I watched as the slate roof came crashing down, as the walls fell in, as the floors collapsed. Now just its beautiful bones remain and it sits as a reminder of all that we lost and all that was saved. Thanks to a calm night and the work of many dedicated firefighters, the house was spared. But I am so, so very sad. Kids and I sat on the back step as the sun came down on that smoking hulk and said this little prayer out loud: Dear God, we pray to you now to say thank you for sparing us and our home, to say we miss our old barn very much and how truly grateful we are that Daddy isn't here to see it.

Journal Entry from May 31st, 1998

I look out my bedroom window now at bedtime and can see the meadow alive with fireflies and I think, I'm the luckiest person alive.