During hectic times like these it helps to think of lives lived at a slower pace. We offer you a glimpse of Ethan Hubbard's wonderful book Salt Pork & Apple Pie, which honors the disappearing generation of Vermont farmers, loggers and “gentle livers” who live close to the land, often without electricity, running water and telephones. The book celebrates their warmth, generosity and slower pace of life. Ethan has a beautiful way with people, with a camera and with words, making this a book a treasure for even those who have never been to Vermont.
Ethan has traveled the world photographing and writing about traditional peoples. These journeys have led to a number of books, including First Light, Sojourns with People of the Outer Hebrides, the Sierra Madre, the Himalayas, and Other Remote Places one of our personal favorites, and one excerpted at length on the Heron Dance website. We’ve also interviewed Ethan a number of times over the years (issues 5, 10, 16, 26, 35).
In Salt Pork & Apple Pie, in the chapter “Going Trading With Harry,” Ethan talks about Harry Smith, a man who became a close friend of his.
I remember one autumn evening when Harry took me in tow to buy groceries in town, to do his “trading” as he still preferred to call his shopping. It was such a privilege to go with Harry, one of the very last “hill farmers” hiking down to town with his brown gunny sack over his shoulder, descending into the modern world of skiers and city transplants.
Harry moved briskly down the hill, his silhouette moving through the crisp darkness like a scarecrow. He carried an old barn lantern. When we reached town, we passed Doc Bisbee’s hardware and could see a few old-timers around the silver potbellied stove telling tales as if time had stood still and the valley still belonged to them. At Elmer Mehuron’s IGA store, Harry pushed open the old wooden door and a small bell tinkled.
We set about loading up the gunnysack with donuts, hot dogs, tea, bread, milk, matches, lamp oil, cat food and a six-pack of Ballantine ale. Harry, as usual, teased Polly Greenslit as she tallied up his groceries. She lovingly pulled his ear and told him to behave and then gently tossed us out into the chilly autumn night.
As we walked home, Harry and I did not speak for a long time. Venus was setting over Scragg Mountain, a solitary owl hooted to its mate somewhere below, and the wind moaned in the hemlock close by. The moon had come up and gave Harry a long, distorted shadow. Harry broke the silence, “Let’s sit down and have ourselves a Ballantine. No one can deny us a night pleasure, and no one will, by God. The world ain’t waiting for us any more than for a porcupine or a weasel to dance or sing.”
We sat down on the still summer-warmed grass and sipped the bitter ale from green cans. We were cupped and held by this night place. Harry began a story about logging up on Palmer Hill in 1939. A thick cloud eclipsed the moon and for a handful of seconds there was pitch dark and no Harry to see. He halted his story, and there was nothingness. And I thought then, what would my world be like without Harry? But the cloud moved on and we were made real again. Harry finished up his story as we moved on through the darkness.
Nine cats approached us as we neared the farmhouse and they arched up against Harry’s legs. Harry picked up four small ones and cradled them close to his neck. Standing on the sagging vine-covered porch as he undid the complicated makeshift lock of wire, string and rope on the front door. Harry turned square to me and said softly, “I like it down there, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
