This Land Is Our Land
- Elizabeth Ricketson
- 13 hours ago
- 5 min read
By Elizabeth Ricketson:
Rain has been scarce in Vermont. We are in drought conditions that is not without impact. Lawns are scorched. The earth is dry and dusty. Daily wildfire concerns. Walks and hikes show visual changes to our landscape. Are the colors of the leaves warming, or are they browning from thirst? I wonder. It is hard to discern the coming of a new season from the disappointment of the last. The early morning sky has taken on a seasonal golden hue. The vibrant emerald greens are now mossy.Â
The summer has been humid, and with rising global temperatures, uncomfortable. Worrisome. We wait for a change of season, hoping the promise of the future will arrive sooner than later.Â
Recently, my husband, Jon, and I attended the Plymouth Folk & Blues Festival in Plymouth, Vermont. What is special about Plymouth, you might ask? It's the home of Calvin Coolidge:
"It was at Plymouth Notch, in the very late hours of August 2, 1923, that Calvin Coolidge received word of the death of President Warren G. Harding. A few hours later, at 2:47 a.m. on August 3, a unique presidential inauguration occurred. Calvin Coolidge was administered the presidential oath by his father, a notary public, in the family parlor by the light of a kerosene lamp. The inauguration scene, so simple and democratic, captured then as still does today the imagination of the American public. And so does the shrewd, industrious, upright, straightforward, and quietly humorous Coolidge, a typical Vermonter and small-town American."
A bluebird Sunday. The expanse of blue skies illuminated the rolling hills and mountains of Vermont. We drove to the grounds of the festival with overflow parking full. Thrilled to see the festival so vibrant. Excited to hear the musicians scheduled to play that Sunday afternoon.Â
We were fortunate to find a parking spot easier than we thought. We traveled with a grocery bag full of food items to be donated; a donation of food was asked but not required. No pressure, as the day was to be enjoyed.
The parking lot boasted license plates from all over: naturally Vermont, New Hampshire, Georgia, Florida, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Quebec. An American sampling while also welcoming our cherished neighbors from Canada. A quilted fabric of what makes up our country. Â
Fiddle music filled the air as we stepped out of our car. With a couple of beach chairs and seltzers in our cooler, we made our way down the gravel path past the Coolidge Museum to the festival grounds. A food truck serving barbeque had a line of hungry attendees. We found a spot and chatted with our neighbors for the afternoon. Everyone was in a welcoming mood. Spirits were high, and I relaxed into remembering that extreme political worry need not occupy every moment of every day since the inauguration. Why did he not place his hand on the Bible?Â
Children ran through the crowd. Barefoot some. Free. Playing games. Chasing one another. Squealing and laughing with childhood delight. I wished I was a child again and blissfully unaware of what has happened to my country. To the country my father fought for in WWII. Freedom and democracy were the hallmarks of our great country, not masked agents plucking innocent people off our streets and children out of their beds.
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Face paint and moose ears. A little boy with a smudged nose chased his younger sister. They weaved in and out of our area, stopping to blow bubbles at one another. With a young child’s impulsive aim, the bubbles missed their intended target and drifted our way repeatedly. A constant flurry of bubbles floated my way. Circles of blue, red, and yellow. I popped those headed for my eyes, giggling about the innocent fun.
The music of The Speckers played while I sat with head back and relaxed into their bluesy sound. Large groups of friends and families made up this sizable crowd. One extended family in front of us asked another family member if they were packed and ready to leave after the concert. Like musical chairs, they changed seats to complete last-minute conversations before saying goodbye.Â
Red Sox baseball caps. Tee shirts telling athletic stories: marathons, The Prouty, and outward-bound adventures hiking kilometers high. No provocative blood-red caps in sight. This was not a day to oppose one another but instead to sit side by side as one. No one knew who voted one way or the other but instead smiles and pleasantries reminded us of who we are.
We may disagree on the details of our democracy, but one can only hope that we can unify in our want to first and foremost protect our democracy that is clearly under siege. We can iron out the details of our democracy later but, like love, if not protected it will slide through our fingers.
As a couple of young boys made their way through the crowd with a modest wooden donation box, one performance ended as the next arrived on stage. Krishna Guthrie picked up his guitar.
"As the progeny of musical and lyrical greatness, the bar has been set high for the great-grandson of Woody Guthrie and grandson of Arlo Guthrie. As a music lover and art aficionado, he has set his own high bar on his potential and personal vision for his own art."
— "Guthrie Seeks Beauty in Unexpected," The Herald, September 12, 2024
And play he did. His guitar screamed, and his exquisite voice silenced the crowd. The energy of the performer encapsulated his grandfather and great-grandfather. Folk royalty was in the house. No doubt Guthrie is his own artist with an undeniable talent. He played one fabulous song after the other while even introducing a riff from an Allman Brothers song, immediately identifiable even for the non-Boomers in the crowd.Â
As the set was coming to an end, Guthrie spoke quietly to the crowd about the song he chose to close with, and he began singing:
"This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York island,
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters;
This land was made for you and me."
The crowd, in unison, began to sing. Loudly. Hands clapping. Some rising to stand as if to pledge allegiance to the flag. A passionate acknowledgement of the song, the artists, our country, and each other.
Hearing "This Land is Your Land" sung by Krishna and surrounded by so many people as eager as I was to sing Woody’s poignant lyrics, I felt homesick for the land I love so dearly but determined to find our way back to a democracy. Tears rolled down my face, but as the voices powerfully soared through the air, hope rose in my heart.
"Nobody living can ever stop me,Â
As I go walking that freedom highway;Â
Nobody living can ever make me turn backÂ
This land was made for you and me."
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.netÂ