Tilting at Windmills (14 page)

When I finished, Annie said to me, “Are you in a hurry?”

“These days, I’m never in a hurry,” I replied.

“Would you like to see my windmill?”

“I’ve seen the windmill,” I said.

“Let me rephrase it, then,” she said. “Would you like to go up inside my windmill? Come on—it’ll be fun. I haven’t shown it in a long time, and it’s high time I did.”

“You keep calling it
your
windmill,” I said, “and you speak of it with such passion, Annie. Such energy. It must be true what I’ve heard—you really are the woman who loves the windmill.”

“That’s a silly old name,” she said, though clearly she was pleased to have heard it again, “and it was given to me by a man so sweet and wonderful and caring, he gave me two amazing gifts. The windmill and—”

“And Janey,” I said. “You sound like you miss your husband very much.” I paused, seeing the smile on her face waver slightly, and a feeling of remorse swept over me. “Oh, Annie, I’m sorry if I’ve intruded. . . . Can’t seem to get away from doing that, huh? So, well, maybe it’s time I left. There’s this thing I had planned . . .”

“Brian, please—you haven’t upset me, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just . . . well, let’s say we drop the subject. Forget whatever you had planned—which I don’t believe for a minute—and let me show you my windmill.”

So I accepted her offer, and without further delay she took me out the back door and into the fresh morning air. Above us, the sun was almost at high noon, and its rays cast a long, languid shine all around us, reflecting off the expansive lawn and exposing hidden golden flecks in Annie’s chestnut-colored hair. As we walked, Annie spoke about the day, talking about how the rain had delayed her hopping on the mower and slicing through the long grass.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said.

“Are you sure I’m not keeping you from your work?” I asked. “It’s a big lawn and probably takes you a while. Plus, you look like you were in the middle of something.” I indicated her shirt, the paint splatters.

“Oh, that . . . well, I suppose you’ll see for yourself,” she answered, but said nothing further on the subject.

To get to the windmill we had to walk across the lawn, past the barn and a sandbox and a swing set that looked handmade, thick pieces of dark wood held together with strong metal fixtures. Once beyond the confines of the house and yard, we steadily climbed a small hill that, from our perspective, meshed with the distant horizon at its top. At its top, though, we had a magnificent view of the valley, its velvety lawns and small forests of trees, its homes and barns and silos. The countryside revealed a world lush and welcoming. And in the center of it all, in a deepening valley, unlike any other object in our vision, stood the windmill. Lonely and majestic, its sails turned slowly, nearly at rest in the cool calm of this glorious spring day.

“Wow,” I said, the sound more like a breath escaping me than an actual word. The sight was like the postcard I’d purchased only an hour ago, but this was three-dimensional and larger than life and more visually striking than could possibly be imagined. I stole a glance at Annie standing beside me, and you could not have painted her expression, for her face betrayed a series of moods and sensations that went deep below the surface, to a place that only her own heart truly knew.

“Come on,” she said with sudden urgency, and grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.

We ran together, two strangers linked not just by flesh but by a shared interest that had miraculously revealed itself to us. Our feet seemed to move above the ground of their own will until we’d reached the windmill. In this time and place, we were one.

Standing underneath the grand mill, I watched as its huge sails passed within inches of my face, first one, then a second, a third, and finally the fourth one, each emitting a soft breeze, like intimate little kisses. I’d been this close to the windmill before, once, with Janey, but there and then I’d been filled with an awkwardness and apprehension, a sense that I didn’t belong. Now, though, it felt like I was meant to be here, like I belonged.

“Tell me all about it,” I said, and she agreed to. And that was when I noticed that our hands were still locked together in a firm grip, sending tingling electric shocks all along my spine. And this was not the windmill’s doing, not this time.

M
y lesson started with logistics as I learned first about the various parts of the windmill. That the main structure was called the tower, and the part above that which controlled the sails was called the cap, and that the cap spun separately from the rest of the structure, enabling it to move with the fluid motion of the wind. It was the cap that the sails were affixed to, and inside the tower was a strong metal beam that was imbedded deep in the ground. At last Annie took me inside, and it was here she began to tell me the story of how the windmill came to be.

“The tale doesn’t begin with the windmill; it can’t. Because the windmill was born from circumstance, out of necessity. And although there were those who cheered its construction, there were detractors, too, those who saw the windmill as a piece of the past. And remember, back then it was a time of progress, of industrial revolution and for forsaking farming methods thought to be outdated. But for Donovan Van Diver, who built the windmill in 1912, this was not a concern to him. No, for him and his family, the windmill was fashioned out of sheer practicality. He built it right on this spot, and here it has stood for nearly ninety years.

“This region was heavily populated with Dutch settlers,” she said, “and they brought with them their unique and wonderful customs and beliefs, and their own beautiful architecture. This windmill is notable among the many Dutch buildings and structures that still stand throughout the Hudson Valley and Columbia County.

“Donovan Van Diver,
you may be thinking, is an unusual name, a mix of two cultures and heritages, and you’d be right in your thinking. The Van Diver family settled in this region in the mid-1800s, immigrants who had landed at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and who had gradually made their way inland. With its closeness to the mighty Hudson, as well as the lush green valleys, they knew this was perfect farmland. Along the way, Donovan’s father, Derek Van Diver, met Kate Sullivan—in Boston—and they fell in love. They moved here, and eventually Derek and Kate took over the farm from his parents, who died, oh, maybe ten years after arriving in America. The farm was prosperous for years, mostly grains. Some dairy, too. As the story goes, though, there was a persistent problem of the land becoming soaked, water-logged, and it wasn’t until Derek and Kate’s eldest child, their son Donovan—named for Kate’s grandfather—grew up that a solution presented itself. Donovan, no more than twenty years old, was a young man fascinated by history, and so he thought to look to his Dutch ancestry and traditions, and in doing so, learned about the uses of windmills. And he proposed building one himself.

“So one summer day, Derek and his son Donovan and many of the farmhands set themselves to work, to the task of erecting a windmill, like many of their forebears had done back in their homeland, where windmills had been in use for a couple centuries. Whether for grinding grains or pumping water, the windmills harnessed the power of the wind. They also added a grandeur and elegance to the landscape, and the windmills became world renowned not just for their practical uses but also for their architectural beauty.”

“That they are,” I said, “unique, grand, elegant.”

“Far more so than the ‘new’ style of windmill, the American windmill,” she said, going on to describe the streamlined modern windmills, the simple spinning wheels atop tall posts that tended to dominate America’s heartland. They might have been more efficient, easier to build, and easier to repair, given the tendency of fierce tornadoes to rip through that open expanse of country. But for Annie, the American windmill just didn’t compare to her Dutch version.

All the while Annie was speaking, I sat enraptured, not just by her tale but also by the emotion in her voice. She spoke strongly, unwavering in her passion for the windmill, and by transference, for life itself. Considering that two months earlier I’d been lost in the quagmire of urban living, so consumed with achieving and excelling and just being, never stopping to appreciate the simpler things in life, the fact that I was now in the company of such elegance, the woman and the windmill both, had me in a state near euphoria. Sitting inside the windmill’s tower, hearing stories of the past, the people, of their trials and tribulations, their hopes and dreams, their losses and legacy, I could almost envision myself building my own windmill.

“Tell me,” I said, as the story of Donovan Van Diver came to a close, “how Annie Sullivan came to know the windmill.”

For the first time, she hesitated and bowed her head in silence, as though she’d lost her place on the page. I couldn’t see her face, but I detected a flash of sorrow as it moved across her features. When she finally looked back up, her eyes were moist and they stared not
at
me but
through
me, to the world beyond the window. The sun had slipped behind a cloud, and the turning sails of the windmill were casting giant shadows on the ground, like ghosts from the past.

Annie curled up within herself, wrapping her arms around her legs. “When you’re just a kid, like Janey, every day is an innocent adventure. You play and you learn and you live, one day to the next, basically unaware that it’s a journey, a path you’re traveling, and that it will take you to wonderful and dark places both. And you are blissfully unaware of the twists and turns life will take. As you grow older, that realization kicks in and the arrogance of adolescence takes over, where you think you can carve that path yourself, cut right through the overgrowth and walk unchallenged through a clearing, straight on in the direction of your choice. Then, at some point, the innocence slips away, the arrogance is trampled, and you’re left with what? The bitterness of adulthood? The conclusion that everything you envisioned for yourself is lost? You can’t cling to your plans, because they come with no guarantee.”

This wasn’t philosophy she was spouting but experience. My heart melted at the desolation she must have been feeling, and I felt at fault. I’d pushed beyond the memories and into the pain, taken her out of the past—the safety of history—and thrust her into her present. Even after two years, she still bore the pain of her husband’s death. By asking about the time she’d come to love the windmill, I’d asked her to examine memories that she’d tried to bury.

“Annie, I’m . . . God, all I ever seem to do around you is apologize.”

“No, Brian, it’s me who should be sorry. . . . It’s just, you know, you can fall in love with a silly thing like a windmill because it’s safe and easy. With its solid, unconditional love, you know nothing can take it away from you. For ninety years, the windmill has lived on, sometimes frail, sometimes strong, but it’s always been there. For me, it’s the one thing I can count on.”

I felt a lump lodge in my throat. “Finding something you can count on, you’re very lucky.” I paused, uncertain what more I could say. “Look, Annie, it’s none of my business, and I can’t presume to empathize with your loss, but you also can’t give up,” I said, my heart heavy with emotion for her, sad for her and mad at myself, for asking too much, pushing too far, and taking her someplace she still wasn’t ready to go—forward.

She wiped away a trickling tear, and said, “That’s what Cynthia’s been telling me: ‘You can’t hide, Annie, not from life.’ ”

I swallowed that lump, those words digging deep into my own heart. “Cynthia’s a smart woman, but she also has to realize that sometimes you need to close down for a while, you need time to heal, and that sometimes it takes longer than you think, longer than others want it to take.”

Annie’s gaze was on me, and when she spoke, it was like a whisper. “You’re not speaking just about me, are you?”

Afraid to speak, afraid my voice would betray me, I merely shook my head. There was a connection between us now, a shared and silent intimacy that had cropped up in the face of our pain, and by admitting it to the other, we had taken an uneasy first step toward each other. We sat together, not having to say a word, and it felt warm and comfortable and special. And then it was gone, a vulnerability picked up by the wind and taken from us.

“How about we save the story of me and the windmill for a rainy day?” she asked me, her mood brightening. “Let me show you something really spectacular.”

“I can’t wait,” came my eager reply.

So we left our wounds at the open window, where the wind could catch them and blow them away, and Annie took me up the winding metal staircase to the second floor, which was narrower because of the windmill’s shape, and into a still sizable room. It looked to me like this was Annie’s secret getaway, her sanctuary.

“Well, that explains the paint splatters,” I said, looking at an easel, and beside it, a table overflowing with paints and brushes and assorted cleaners. There was a canvas on the easel, but it was covered with a white sheet, and Annie said it was staying there.

“I’m not ready to show it,” she said.

“No pressure,” I said, “but I’d love to see some of your work.”

She was smiling and obviously felt pride in her painting. “I’m no professional. It’s just a hobby, but . . .” There was a small closet against the far wall, and she opened the set of doors to reveal a series of canvases. She invited me over, and I crouched down near her as she flipped through painting after painting. There were ten in all, all natural landscapes, all beautifully wrought, with rich, vibrant colors and an amazing knack for detail. Trees in spring, awash with buds. A brook in summer, bubbling along. And, of course, the windmill, three paintings in all, each more remarkable than the other.

“Oh, Annie, they’re really quite beautiful,” I said, taking hold of the last painting and bringing it out into the light. Annie had captured a lovely summer sunset, an iridescent sky set behind the glorious windmill, and playfully running across the lawn was a little girl not unlike Janey.