WEST BRATTLEBORO — When I first moved up to Bonnyvale Road about 15 years ago, my then-8-year-old son, Joey, and our Fresh Air Fund camper, Punna, went down to the neighboring horse farm to meet the horses and ask if they could “do some work.”
A few minutes later, the boys came running back up to the house telling me that a neighbor girl named Molly had stuffed grass down Punna's shirt. And there he was, dragging his suitcase across the lawn, telling me that he was going back to Brooklyn.
Once the boys calmed down, I marched them down to the horse farm to confront this girl named Molly. When we got down to the farm, Molly was casually rocking in the hammock out front, and she welcomed the boys with her arms outspread and a beatific smile on her face. They jumped into the hammock, landing on either side of her, rocked and giggled, and were happy as could be - it was as if nothing happened.
The boys and Molly became friendly, and they all worked at the barn under Meg Kluge's legendary tutelage, with Molly always instructing them with the patience of a gifted teacher even at the age of 10.
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Over the years, I watched Molly grow and mature into an amazing young woman. During high school, she worked at Brown & Roberts Hardware, and she always greeted me with a smile and we chatted about the neighborhood and the horses. I was struck by what a hard worker Molly was as I saw her working after school and even on weekends.
Later, I was happy to see her take over the land at the top of the hill to create a small organic farm with vegetables and chickens.
We connected when my rescue lab/pit bull mix ran down to her farm and killed a few of her chickens. I was devastated and paid her the market value of the chickens, but it was awfully hard to replace the one she said was her favorite. I felt terrible, but she respected my attempt to make amends as a neighbor.
We began to stop and talk on occasion, and a bond grew between us.
She was out there working on the organic vegetable farm during all seasons and all weather. Putting a yurt on the property, she created a lovely spot. I would often go down there on my snowshoes and she let me cut across the land. She'd come out from the yurt and greet me, with her little dog in her arms, to discuss the weather and the woods.
This summer, when she worked at Milagros in Brattleboro, I often went and hung out with her when it was slow. We would talk about her work and her studies at Greenfield Community College.
We often talked about making one's path in life. Like most of us, Molly had ups and downs; she wasn't entirely sure about her direction. She laughed when I told her I still wasn't sure what path my life was taking - and I was in my 50s.
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One thing I keep thinking, in the sadness after Molly Dowd's sudden and untimely death, was that she was in a really wonderful place in her life.
One night last summer, I walked by, and she was out in the field with some of her many friends, playing guitars and singing. She had a beautiful small farm with a gorgeous view and animals she cared for, along with a loving family down the road. I felt her presence always on the farm, even when she wasn't there.
Now that she's really gone, the neighborhood will never be the same. But she has left something behind - something her father, Ernie, told me the other day that “we all can share.”
Nowadays, I sometimes leave my house and go over to the view spot where the farm is, and I just sit and look over Meg Kluge's land and focus on the horse farm in the distance.
I remember the young woman laughing with me at Brown and Roberts about some funny story, working in the horse barn and riding her horse, Jack, tirelessly tilling and creating her vegetable gardens, where she hung a tree swing and put up a tetherball post nearby.
I'll remember Molly's easy laugh, her patient way with people of all ages, and the kindness she gave to everyone who knew her.
The last time I saw her at the restaurant, just a few weeks ago, she knew exactly what I would order without me having to tell her. As I watched her write down my order, I noticed the dirt under her fingernails.
I think of that image and think of her other legacy.
She was a young woman who worked the land, and she was not afraid of living on it.