Lemington: Bridget Gales

In the center of Canaan, the intersection gives me three choices. I can go straight, and cross the Connecticut river to Spa, New Hampshire. I can turn North, and go the two extra miles to Beecher Falls, a village of Canaan that marks the North Eastiest of the North East Kingdom. Looking at Google Maps, I see that there is a large lumber mill there, but nothing else. Instead, I turn South, down route 103, and follow the Connecticut River as it heads to the next town, Lemington. With it’s 87 residents (according to Wikipedia) all inside because of the rain, I have trouble finding someone to speak to in Lemington. I pass a few farms, some small houses, an empty gravel pit and a town “center” consisting of a dirt parking lot, a red, one room town hall, and a low white town office, with six darkened windows and no cars in the parking lot. Driving toward the Southern end of town, and wondering if I’m going to be able to find anyone to speak to, I pass another gravel pit, but this time, I see trucks and people working. I pull in and knock on the office door. In this sparsely furnished utilitarian office, I’m greeted by a woman in her late thirties, who introduces herself as Bridget Gales.

She actually lives in Canaan, but has spent her entire life here. Her grandfather owned a farm in Lemington, and she is related to most of the people in the town. Bridget listens to my explanation about this project with genuine interest. When I ask her if I can interview her on camera, though, she seems to be nervous. “Would it help to see the questions in advance?” She looks over the questions, and begins rehearsing her answers. Bridget clearly wants to do a good job here, and wants to say the right thing. She can’t remember when her father bought the gravel pit, so she calls him up to ask him. “Who’s asking? I’ll be right there,” I hear his gruff voice over the phone. “I think he’s worried that you’re from the government,” Bridget says, “You should ask him to speak; he’s a great talker.” Implied in this statement is that she doesn’t think that she’s much of a speaker, but I am struck by her open, friendly expression, and the perceptive intelligence behind her eyes. “Another person you should speak to is Joe Daley. He’s the unofficial mayor of Lemington.” Her father walks in, and Bridget explains my project to him. “Have you talked to Joe Daley?”  he asks. “He’s a real asshole.” Bridget looks scandalized, “Don’t say that!” “It’s true, and I don’t care who knows it. Put that up on YouTube!” Convinced that I’m not with the government, he gets up to leave. I begin recording, but almost immediately, a truck drives onto the scales. She tries to talk to the driver, but seems flustered by my recording. I stop the video and she works out how to give him the information he needs. When I start the camera again, she is intent on promoting her town. She talks about the fishing, hiking, and kayaking opportunities. Less than a minute goes by when we’re interrupted again by the driver. The third time I start the camera, she tells a story about her grandfather’s cows, lost in a lighting storm. After I stop the recording, Bridget has much more to say. The stiff formality is gone, and she turns back into the talkative, friendly, helpful person she was when I walked in the door. She has suggestions for who I should speak with. At the big farm in Bloomfield, Routhier’s, I shouldn’t talk to the guys. “Go to the house and talk to Paula,” She advises. “She’ll be much more willing to talk.” She tries to find other ways to be helpful, offering to print me more cards, looking up places to go further south. We also talk about the business. The gravel pit is one of three her father owns. In the one further south, they’ve also installed four acres of solar panels. “But the company tells me the panels get all of their allotted energy by 10 am. That’s all the capacity they have.” This seems strange to me, but I take her at her word, thank her for the interesting (off camera) conversation, and head out to find my next town.