Author Archives: Chris Brunson

Last Month I Dreamed I Went To Baileyville Again*

“Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place.” Toni Morrison, The Site of Memory.

Present. Past is underfoot, like a river with currents unseen.

Gone is the tower once here that we jumped from, but the dinosaur tracks Bailey found do remain, a delight to find after recent improvements to the dam.

To move forward, find water. Listen to the flow. Yet unseen currents that can pull you under, lead elsewhere; memories. Power and inspiration. Water. Tidal time, rivers.

Having witnessed firsthand the Roanoke River raging out of its banks, a beast that gulped land, bridges, all in its path–higher, higher, higher. Have deep respect for the power of water. Do not underestimate, do not linger, do not live in its path, check floodplains and hidden hazards. Sleepy brooks don't stay that way in flash floods, incessant rain.

Ripple marks from long ago, fossil evidence.

After a wonderful day touring Guilford, a stop to see an old friend, a dam. Stories swirling in my mind. People. Grateful. King Road has changed, the ice houses gone and cottages replaced by large new homes. A curved Quonset beside the lake remains.

Reading the newsprint story with images (the whole print issue intact) again provokes memories. Lloyd's is no more, Lloyd Blair retired and lives up the road, a walk away from his restaurant's location in Baileyville (Middlefield, CT).

Sitting beside Editor Marilyn Spencer as she spoke the written words as she honed, corrected, punctuated as needed. Made it better. Questioned the writer, that's me. Learn by doing, an irreplaceable education from a master. Thank you. Thank you. Absorbed every word, action, experience and thirsted for more. Knew the value, couldn't believe I got the job, a reach that day so long ago. Calling because was offered a bookkeeping assistant's role, but wanted what was a dream. Tried once more; she said yes, bring clips.

That's another story.

This one, published Feb. 7, 1991, is from a lifetime ago. Picas. A measure; coding in its earliest form to create big letter indents and drop quotes. Woe to anyone who forgot the proper coding for t˙e quote because the output to do pasteup would then go on for pages on production day at Shoreline Times inside the former schoolhouse stone building (now condos, very beautiful ones too), Guilford. Her name is forgotten, but her production role in outputting that shiny paper–and wrath at waste–is not.

Excerpt:

“What remains of Baileyville's 70-year-long bustling scene of commerce are brownstone foundations, a now straightened curve in Route 147 and memories of busy shops, markets, wooden wringers, sawmills, gristmill and the power of water harnessed.”

Story, below the fold page one, jumps to full page three. The dam and a small quarry intertwine with what once was a swamp–and dinosaur tracks discovered, placed by Mr. Bailey who built a dam.

Water views, eyebrow clouds. Yes, that's part of my hand in the foreground.

A page from the past, before highways and flood control. “In the vicinity of Dutch Point.” (Note the pattern over the image, that's on purpose.)



Note: *With apologies to Daphne Du Maurier–who, of course, wrote that immortal opening sentence for Rebecca, and the words that followed: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate.” Barred, as is our access to the past except through recollections, stories and images, writing and sharing.

To be continued.

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