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Today I figure I’ll try Gray Lodge Marina. I have an hour to ride out and back to make it in time to the meeting Gerry called with the Meriden residents who are fighting the turbine farm. When I arrive, numerous trucks are lined up to back their boats down the launch. It’s a small marina, but a popular one. Not only are the regulars here, but lots of day trippers are also launching or filling with gas.
The marina also rents boats for day use. This got hugely popular a few years back when everyone became more interested in the great outdoors. The lucky ones find a spot in the lot and hop onto their boat already in the slip. They turn the key and go. For a beautiful Saturday on Newfound Lake, crowds are to be expected. Fortunately for me, there is never a wait to launch a small watercraft.
I lift my board from my truck bed and pass by the people who are loading their boats. Kids run around with Popsicles, moms wrangle babies, and dads sling coolers over their shoulders, ready to enjoy this beautiful day. I’m exhausted watching as I pass by.
I glide my board straight into the cool lake water, tighten my life jacket around my chest, and kneel. I dip my paddle in and with small, gentle strokes, I steer through the channel between the boats lining the marina. A group of young guys are loading a speedboat with coolers, and I reflect on Jackson’s story about Trinity’s accident. One of these boats sitting here is his. I wonder if he bothered to shrink-wrap and winterize it.
My heart breaks all over again at the thought of what they endured that day. They experienced more than anyone should have to bear, and it seems Jackson can no longer see the beauty of this lake. It has affected Jackson and his family’s ties to this community. He’s running as a way of coping, but it’s at the risk of his family losing their orchard.
Holding on to the board with both hands, I inch my feet forward, stand, and continue into the open water. I wish Jackson could experience the beauty of this place the way I do. Maybe then he could remember.
I quicken my pace and try to make this a workout, hoping to get my mind off Jackson. I push myself toward the east into one cove after another, paddling around the perimeter and working up a sweat. The coves are quiet, except for a few boats leaving their docks for the day. Passengers wave as they slowly pass by, mindful of the no-wake zone. Families and couples dot the shoreline, setting chairs and coolers in semicircles. All seems well around Newfound Lake.
It wasn’t long ago my father taught me how to fish over the edge of a kayak. I always envisioned passing on this knowledge to my own children.
Retracing my strokes back to the marina, I notice how crowded the shoreline and water are. As I’ve gotten older and hopefully wiser, I now believe the best time to be out on the lake is when everyone else is sleeping. There’s nothing more satisfying than being the first one to launch as the sun rises.
Upon entering the channel surrounding the marina, I notice most of the boat slips are vacant. Mindful of the time, I hurry back to the cabin. I can’t be late for the meeting. This town is offering to help us, and I will not keep them waiting.
My truck bumps along Main Street, and I’m astounded at the traffic. People should be heading toward the lake on a day this gorgeous, not away from it.What’s going on?
I finally reach town hall and am confused by the number of people ahead of me waiting to turn into the same lot. Maybe something else is going on that I don’t know about?
If I wait in this line, there’s no way I’ll make it in time. I signal to the right and pull into the full-service gas station. Swinging around to the last spot, I park and jog across to town hall.
A huge crowd has gathered in the parking lot. I stand corrected—I thought they mailed only a few owners letters of interest. There are at least a hundred and fifty people here. As I walk up the concrete steps, an older gentleman tips his head and holds the door for me.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are very welcome, my dear. Anyone here to fight this is a friend of mine,” he says with a kind smile and sincere expression.
I scan the crowded room and see people ages five to ninety. Only a few rows of wooden chairs have been positioned in front of the small stage. A group has formed an assembly line next to a hallway leading to a closet that stores the remaining chairs. One by one, chairs are passed down the line and set up, creating row after row.
I quickly fix my pocketbook across my body and join the back of the assembly line. As I take the tenth or eleventh chair and form a new row, I turn to the stage to find both Gerry and Jackson looking my way. As if caught committing a crime, Jackson startles and Gerry throws his arm up and waves.
I can’t help but laugh and walk back to rejoin the line.
Soon, the rickety chairs are out of the closet, and people find seats. Those without one line the wood-paneled walls. Most people talk passionately about the wind farm, at least those conversations I overhear. I walk toward the back and lean against the wall, spotting Gerry on the stage. I discreetly search for Jackson, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Gerry typically dresses casually in a T-shirt and jeans with a store apron, but today he has on a short-sleeve button-down shirt tucked into a pair of loose slacks, held up by a wide, brown leather belt.
Impressive, Gerry. Quite professional.
Next to Gerry is another older gentleman I’ve never seen before. He has to be in his midseventies, guessing by his thick white hair and deep wrinkles. The intensity this man exudes suffuses the gathering to the back wall. I figure this must be the lawyer Jackson mentioned. He looks like he can handle himself in a courtroom. Broad shoulders, a wide jaw, powerful, but there’s also a kindness in the energy around him. There must be, though. If this is indeed the lawyer, he came out of retirement to help a bunch of strangers save their land.
As I’m sizing up this guy, Gerry steps to the podium.
“Good morning, everyone! Can I have your attention?” Despite the volume of the microphone, the chatter continues. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a lot to discuss. Let’s get quiet and organize ourselves.” The heated conversations simmer to a murmur while Gerry stands idle waiting for the room to be quiet enough for him to talk again. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out today. As you know, we are here because of Green Breeze Enterprises. For those of you who were not in attendance at the town hall meeting last week, these folks have their sights set on purchasing multiple properties in town upon which to build large wind farms.”
In response, a bearded man from the front stands and yells, “Bullshit.” His anger permeates the whole room.
“Who do these assholes think they are?” someone shouts from the back.
“OK, OK, I hear you and share your frustration on the matter, so much so, I organized this meeting to see what we can accomplish together. So, hear me out. First thing is, most of you who are here today are not property owners of lots that interest Green Breeze—yet. After speaking to many of you at the store and throughout town, I understand your frustration and can empathize with you wanting to keep Meriden in its current state. I listened to the facts proving there’d be an increase in traffic, commercialism, and the devastating effects this could have on wildlife.”
“Damn right!” an audience member shouts from somewhere along the wall. Gerry continues.
“This week, we have an opportunity to have our voices heard. A council meeting is scheduled to happen right here in town hall. Most of us don’t bother with those meetings until they matter to us, and this one must matter to us. A representative from Green Breeze is on the agenda this week. I’m hearing they’re going to provide an update on the project. Typically, the meetings start with the listening of public comments. Anyone can take a minute or two to express their concerns about the proposed wind farms. After talking to Mike—shoot, Mike, come on over here.”
