PORTRAIT OF A STUBBORN OLD WOMAN
My grandmother has been a rabid environmentalist since an early age, and has lost none of her determination over her eighty-six years of life. Four years ago our neighbor to the east sold the large stretch of woods between his house and the river, which was almost immediately clearcut and the slash left to rot. At the center of environmentalist hell lies a dam. In the first circle, clearcut land bares its ugly face. Fuming but powerless, the grandmother exhorted the curses of a green heaven to fall upon the evildoers. She simmered.
That particular stretch of land also contains two old gravel pits, long since abandoned. A month ago, we noticed a renewal of activity along the access road that winds down to the river, from which the loggers' road plunges into the woods-that-were. Heavy machinery disembarked from trailers sporting "Wide Load" banners, front-end loaders and bulldozers and dump trucks disappeared into the woods. The access road was graded. Or at least that appears to have been the idea. It was scraped flat and loads of gravel were dumped and pushed along its length; unfortunately, the scraping only succeeded in lowering the road, and all of the gravel ended up in great drifts on either side of the road. On our land. Spring thaw will be interesting this year. There shall be washout, yea, and erosion fearsome to behold. But that will come later.
For a time the access road became quite a bustling place; dumptrucks full of gravel coughed past in intervals you could have used as a metronome. We assumed that the pit not visible from the road had been resurrected, and the owner making a tidy profit off, mark, his own land. But the state of things seemed too simple for the nature Nazi. They had disregarded all respect for the environment four years before, why should they change their ways now? She girded her loins for battle, and, shod in her sturdy Birkenstocks, hiked down the road to investigate. Trespassing must stand aside when nature stands threatened.
She found: a great hole bitten out of the side of the hill next to the gravel pit, red dump trucks busy as ants around the great queen of the D-9 Cat, burning piles of old slash, and a full-sized RV, complete with propane grill and comfortable extendable porch awning.
Immediate action was necessary. As the single dissenting vote on the Planning Board eight years ago for the building of the new high school, she knew well the strictures on land use, especially for commercial gain. A town permit was necessary, also a state permit. Also the verdict of an EPA inspector. She made the calls. A car was dispatched. A stop-work order was given. The dump trucks disappeared.
I often try to imagine the owner's reaction when told that his efforts, unimaginably costly but no doubt extremely profitable, had been thwarted by an 86-year-old woman. I imagine his frustration at the fact that the land in question belongs, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to him. I imagine snipers hired, to bag the old lady as she hangs out her washing. And finally, I chuckle as I imagine the old lady, when she sees the solitary dump truck that I observed today rumbling past, once again donning her paint and feathers and striding out upon the warpath. Regardless of the odds, regardless of permits granted, regardless of the hopelessness of her battle, she will smile grimly as she either finds and deals the fatal blow through the chink in the legal armor, or goes down fighting, to the last.
My grandmother has been a rabid environmentalist since an early age, and has lost none of her determination over her eighty-six years of life. Four years ago our neighbor to the east sold the large stretch of woods between his house and the river, which was almost immediately clearcut and the slash left to rot. At the center of environmentalist hell lies a dam. In the first circle, clearcut land bares its ugly face. Fuming but powerless, the grandmother exhorted the curses of a green heaven to fall upon the evildoers. She simmered.
That particular stretch of land also contains two old gravel pits, long since abandoned. A month ago, we noticed a renewal of activity along the access road that winds down to the river, from which the loggers' road plunges into the woods-that-were. Heavy machinery disembarked from trailers sporting "Wide Load" banners, front-end loaders and bulldozers and dump trucks disappeared into the woods. The access road was graded. Or at least that appears to have been the idea. It was scraped flat and loads of gravel were dumped and pushed along its length; unfortunately, the scraping only succeeded in lowering the road, and all of the gravel ended up in great drifts on either side of the road. On our land. Spring thaw will be interesting this year. There shall be washout, yea, and erosion fearsome to behold. But that will come later.
For a time the access road became quite a bustling place; dumptrucks full of gravel coughed past in intervals you could have used as a metronome. We assumed that the pit not visible from the road had been resurrected, and the owner making a tidy profit off, mark, his own land. But the state of things seemed too simple for the nature Nazi. They had disregarded all respect for the environment four years before, why should they change their ways now? She girded her loins for battle, and, shod in her sturdy Birkenstocks, hiked down the road to investigate. Trespassing must stand aside when nature stands threatened.
She found: a great hole bitten out of the side of the hill next to the gravel pit, red dump trucks busy as ants around the great queen of the D-9 Cat, burning piles of old slash, and a full-sized RV, complete with propane grill and comfortable extendable porch awning.
Immediate action was necessary. As the single dissenting vote on the Planning Board eight years ago for the building of the new high school, she knew well the strictures on land use, especially for commercial gain. A town permit was necessary, also a state permit. Also the verdict of an EPA inspector. She made the calls. A car was dispatched. A stop-work order was given. The dump trucks disappeared.
I often try to imagine the owner's reaction when told that his efforts, unimaginably costly but no doubt extremely profitable, had been thwarted by an 86-year-old woman. I imagine his frustration at the fact that the land in question belongs, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to him. I imagine snipers hired, to bag the old lady as she hangs out her washing. And finally, I chuckle as I imagine the old lady, when she sees the solitary dump truck that I observed today rumbling past, once again donning her paint and feathers and striding out upon the warpath. Regardless of the odds, regardless of permits granted, regardless of the hopelessness of her battle, she will smile grimly as she either finds and deals the fatal blow through the chink in the legal armor, or goes down fighting, to the last.
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