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Hello! Here we are at the end of March—a month the poet Swinburne describes as “master of winds, bright minstrel, and marshal of storms.” * Poets have been writing about the month of March for centuries—Wordsworth, Bryant, Dickinson, Swinburne, Neruda—whispering nuanced lines that tug at my thoughts and shape my daydreams. My house is a poet. I stand in the living room before bay windows much bigger than me. Below, the woolen mill’s hoary, industrial steam puffs and curls like the color of a sheep’s fleece. While over the naked hills, the March light shines soft and pink. A tease of blooms still asleep in flower beds. But these windows have been awake and watching for 142 years. They’ve seen many gleaming skies—undeceived. For their glass is cold with drafts that whisper, remember them. And I think about how hard life was for the people who worked below the house in the mill, many years ago. If you’ve read my essay, Mommy Pizza, you’ll know this subject matters to me. Recently, I read Facing Toward the Dawn by Richard Lenzi, a scholar of Italian-American labor activism. While his book focuses on the political and labor movement of Italian Americans in New London, CT during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, he mentions the activism and activity of Italian Americans in Stafford Springs multiple times. They banded together. They worked hard. They changed lives and built hope. They built the future. Though this house, The Freeman-Patten house, may be named for the family who first owned it, a family who profited from the hard work of many people, it is a monument for those workers. So many people whose names I don’t know. This house is fruit of their labor. And I think—how strange and happy that I’m here. It’s incredible, really. Still standing in the living room, I feel wonderfully small and grateful…
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