Gabriella Brand

There are so many places in the world that I truly love…..exotic places on the other side of the globe….and familiar places in my own neck of the woods. Midnight Mind, an international cultural review, just launched its “On the Road in America” issue. Although I truly would like to get away at this moment in history, I am delighted that the terrific editor, Brett Van Ernst, chose to publish my “Ode to Route Five”.

You can purchase their whole publication at midnightmind.com or read my contribution below:

ODE TO ROUTE FIVE

If you held a giant skein of wool in Derby Line, Vermont and let it unravel along U.S.Route 5, the yarn would eventually end up in New Haven, Connecticut. It would cross three states, wiggle its way through green fields and gritty cities, and come to a stop on the shore of Long Island Sound.

Obviously, I’ve never actually dropped a three hundred mile long skein of wool along Route 5, but I often imagine doing it. I suppose that’s because I think of the historic byway as a winding ribbon that holds much of New England together, from north to south. Interstate 91, running almost adjacent to Route 5, accomplishes that same task, but I- 91 works like a steel rod – straight, efficient, and practical. Route 5 feels gossamer, softer, a little bit less hell -bent on destination. More like a piece of yarn. And I associate yarn with comfort. Yarn is a sweater made by your grandmother, yarn is what you played with as a child, making God’s Eyes or pom-poms.

I love driving that yarn-like highway from my home in Connecticut to a cherished town in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. In urban areas, Route 5 is ho-hum ugly, with four lanes bordered by car washes and cannabis vendors. Along its shoulder lies a quilt of litter : tire rims, lone sneakers, red envelopes that once held french fries. I don’t often use Route 5 in places like Hartford or Springfield, but I treasure the rural parts, especially in Massachusetts and Vermont where I get a glimpse of life as it used to be. A well-preserved grange, clapboard buildings, the smell of horse manure, farm stands, U.S.post offices the size of a garden shed.

I’ve driven the length of Route 5 hundreds of times. Of course if I’m in a hurry, I use the Interstate because it’s quick and easy. The only time I’ve ever encountered a serious delay on I-91 was back in 2004 when I got stuck in the famous Phish concert traffic jam near Coventry,Vermont. 70,000 fans ended up exiting their cars to dance, smoke, and even barbecue, right there on the dotted center line. But normally I-91 is super efficient, like a zipper on a jacket. Even when observing the speed limit, I can make the three hundred mile trip in less than five hours. Taking Route 5 more than doubles that time.

But Route 5 offers something better than efficiency. It offers a wistful, slow look at the backside of America. Its derrière, if you will. Somewhat hidden. Functional. A bit shameful in spots. Taken for granted. An escape route, of sorts. Driving Route 5 takes me outside myself. Sometimes I’m back in the Hippy Sixties, reading the bulletin board at the Putney Coop. Spinning wheel for sale, sheep included. Chakra Adjustments. At other times, I return to the Pre-Revolutionary era as I pass an old meeting house. Since many of the place names are of Abenaki origin – Passumsic, Omponpanoosuc. – I say the syllables out loud, as a homage to the natives who once lived here. History is thick and deep in these parts. Seeing reminders of the past helps me to keep perspective on current events, personal challenges, and the rough edges of my life.

As Route 5 meanders up or down New England, it occasionally ducks under the Interstate and plays footsie with the Connecticut River, which makes a neat seam between Vermont and New Hampshire.

Route 5 tells proud stories and sad stories and hopeful ones too. A double wide trailer crushed by a fallen tree. A line of Tibetan prayer flags strung up at a Congregational Church. A collection of rusting tractors in a field, lined like toys on a child’s shelf. And of course there are the cows. You can’t enjoy cows from the Interstate going seventy miles per hour. I happen to really love cows and part of the appeal of Route 5 is their presence. I know I’ll see more of them after I cross the Canadian border, but these Route 5 Holsteins are plentiful enough to give me the bucolic feeling I crave.

As I come to the terminus of Route 5, I enter the village of Derby Line, where maples arch the road, and the U.S. Customs building is graced with a quaint portico. This isn’t tourist Vermont with manicured aesthetics. There are no ski emporiums or tea shops. This is Route 5 loveliness, worn and used, slightly frayed.

I slowly let my car roll down the hill to stop at Canada Customs. My brain switches to kilometers and I continue north on Quebec Route 143, Route 5’s Canadian cousin. It’s the same road, I tell myself, but with a French accent and even more cows.