Page 59 of Upstate

“Thanks.” She pulls out her phone to check the time. “I’ve got to get ready for Gramma Lulu’s livestream. See you later, Audrey.”

Over the next hour, a few people stop by my table to reminisce about Evelyn. Every anecdote features some outsized accomplishment, from Evelyn gifting a picture book to every kindergartener in Schuywich to her bookshop sponsoring the high school track team. Her physical stature seemed to match her standing in the community, with people invariably describing her as tall or strong or statuesque. Coupled with the columns she wrote for Mademoiselle and the stories Wren’s shared, I have a well-rounded portrait, now, of the woman whose business I’m attempting to revive.

As much as people enjoy sharing stories about Evelyn, only a couple of books actually sell. At quarter to ten, I step away from my table to go hear Lucinda’s talk. Approaching the stage, I spot a floppy hat and long legs stretched out from a camping chair.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Audrey, there you are.” Sam jumps up and pops open a second folding chair he’s got stashed under his own. “Here, have a seat.”

“Thanks.” The chair is a rickety thing that cuts into the backs of my thighs and sags under my ass when I sit. Wriggling in it self-consciously, I ask, “When did you get here?”

“At seven. I volunteered to help set up before my talk. The ag extension’s table is on the other side of the stage, next to those homesteaders with the goats I was telling you about. I’ll take you over to meet them after the next talk.”

“Okay, great.” I’m still conflicted about bringing more animals onto my land, but I’m not about to turn down the chance to meet a baby goat.

We fall silent as the woman onstage takes questions from the audience about raising kunekune pigs while slipping treats to the prize sow leashed beside her. It feels easy, sitting here beside Sam. His presence makes me feel lighter, somehow, as if the psychic weight I’ve carried alone my whole life has lifted, just a little.

I’ve never invited a partner to shoulder my pain as a shared burden. David would have been willing, I’m sure, but I was too afraid that showing him my darkness would dim his light. I wanted so much to live in his world of music and life and love for the city that I shoved my pain into a deep, dark place where I hoped he’d never find it. His light might have been strong enough to brighten us both. Now I’ll never know.

After the kunekune farmer leads her porcine protégée offstage, the announcer steps up to the microphone. “Next up, we have Lucinda Green, the Cozy Cozy Lady.” A round of general applause is enhanced by whoops from the Black farmers and enthusiastic shouts from the fans who’ve come especially to see her.

“Demographers who say the population of the Adirondacks is mainly conservative and white are not wrong,” Lucinda begins. Though her tone of voice is soft as a bedtime story, there’s no blunting the challenge implicit in her words. “But those maps of New York where counties are colored either red or blue don’t tell the whole story.”

Lucinda’s topic is familiar to her followers, but there’s always something new to listen for. She’s describing how, in 1846, wealthy white abolitionist Gerrit Smith decided to give away plots of land he owned in the Adirondacks in what he called “a scheme of justice and benevolence” after the state legislature disenfranchised any Black man who did not own two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of real property—a restriction no other group faced.

“New Yorkers tend to think of disenfranchisements such as poll taxes and literacy tests and voter ID laws as obstacles imposed by bigots in the South,” Lucinda says, “but history shows the North Country is not faultless in the creation of the fissures in our common citizenry that haunt our nation to this day.”

Beside me, Sam nods in vigorous agreement as the Cozy Cozy Lady schools us all in aspects of American history I, for one, never learned in school.

“Now, Gerrit Smith’s benevolence had its limits,” Lucinda continues. “The land he so generously gave away was essentially unsellable, a real estate investment that wasn’t paying off. Homesteading on unimproved Adirondack acres is nigh on impossible for even the most experienced farmer, as many of the homesteaders here today can attest. Most of the men Gerrit granted land couldn’t make a go of it—a failure unfairly linked to their race. Some returned to Troy or Schenectady or Brooklyn. Others struck out farther west, riding the wave of pioneers who displaced the Indigenous populations of our continent in their determination to make a living from the land. A few, like my husband’s ancestor Henry Green, managed to hang on. Over time, their families became integrated into their communities as councilmen and church women. Together with their white neighbors, Black folk helped keep tiny towns like North Elba vital, just as more recent influxes of immigrants are revitalizing downtrodden upstate villages today.”

Lucinda goes on to describe the harsh life endured by those first Black farmers, and to give examples of their triumphs, too. As her time onstage comes to an end, she looks up from her notes and smiles. “People who live off the land know better than most that we are all connected, from the air we breathe to the water we drink to the food we produce and consume. Far from being a forgotten historical footnote, the Black men and women who braved life in the Adirondacks are a vital thread in the tapestry we all continue to weave.”

Aisha ends the livestream and gives her grandmother a hug as homesteaders clap in appreciation. The next speaker, a tattooed white guy with a full beard and a bald head, puts his hands over his heart and bows to Lucinda before changing the mic cover and taking her place. “We all love beer, am I right?” he begins. “Well, you can’t have beer without hops.”

“Her talk was amazing,” Sam says. “Makes me want to revisit the John Brown Farm, to see it with new eyes.”

“Lucinda is awesome, isn’t she?” I say. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

There’s no graceful way out of that sagging chair, but I manage to get to my feet. Sam stands, too, in a fluid motion that makes me think of unfurling ferns. At the Black farmers’ table, Aisha is struggling to maintain a safe distance between her grandmother and an encroaching circle of enthusiastic fans. Not wanting to add to her stress, I step away.

“Maybe we’ll come back later, okay? In the meantime, weren’t you going to show me some goats?”

“Absolutely,” Sam says, his smile lifting his mask. “Let’s go.”

If there’s anything in this world more adorable than baby Nigerian dwarf goats, I have yet to see it. The homesteader, a warmhearted, no-nonsense woman named Maeve, hands me one round-bellied animal after another. Their coats are warm and soft, their coloring varied from black to fawn, their slitted eyes curious and lively. The goats nuzzle my ears and gnaw on the brim of my cap. I’m already in love with them when I ask if they’re not too small to make good companions for my ram. “Won’t he step on them or something?”

“I’d like to see him try!” Maeve laughs. “These kids will scamper right out of his way. Besides, the animals don’t play together, exactly. It’s more about them knowing they’re not alone.”

Like me, I think. With the bookshop shut for the season, I’ve been lonelier than ever. Sandra’s already packing for Arizona. Aisha’s internship is over. Lucinda’s busy with her book. Even Wren’s constant companionship came to an end after he sold through his inventory and closed the pop-up shop. When he invited me to meet up with him and Eric for drinks at the gazebo, I thought the three of us were starting a new tradition. Instead, they had news to share: Wren was giving up on Broadway and opening a real antique store in a building Eric owns in the village. Since then, they’ve both been too busy with the new business to stop by for morning lattes. I think of the barn cat—alone, too, ever since Rhonda facilitated the adoption of her kittens. Should I invite her in? Maybe another creature in the house would help me forget I’m the only one of my kind between those four walls.

“Well, if you’re sure the ram will like them?” I raise my eyebrows in a question that Sam answers.

“If you have any problems,” he says, “I promise to find them a new home.”

I kiss the top of a baby goat’s head, then place it back in its pen. Somehow, I’m talked into taking three castrated bucks called wethers, which Maeve will drop off at Red Barn Books sometime tomorrow.

“Let’s exchange numbers,” she says. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”