E.S.T.

Chapter One

The river was first.

Before the heat and the cars and the expensive coffee. Before the horses and the electric wires. Before the mill and the wheel. Before the bank’s soft soil bore the tracks of man. Winding through the countryside, carving her unique signature on the land; calling, creating, and bringing life to its rocky sides. Unceasing and relentless, patient and insistent; the river was first.

While it might be a stretch to refer to it as ‘magic,’ there is nonetheless something uniquely particular about New England mill towns. There is a silent humility in a town whose geographic will is bent (figuratively and literally) to a river. A subtle, often begrudging, acknowledgement that the land defines the settlement, rather than the other way around. The river feeds, carries, and watches; bearing vocal witness as everything around her changes.

Devon, NH is such a place. The main street (the creatively named River Road; it is worth noting that ‘Main Street’ itself is some distance away, and is far less main than River) bears, in its brickwork, evidence of its past even as it lurches, resentfully, into the present era. “Rexall Drug,” and “Woolworths” are laid in tile and stone upon the sidewalk in front of a high end clothing store and a yoga studio, respectfully. Masonic symbols adorn the parapet walls that stand sentry to River Road’s activities, bearing witness as literal horsepower gave way to figurative. The mills still line the river, but long gone are the days of grist, textiles, or shoes. They generate housing now, in the form of condominiums. A different product, to be sure, but one still created by the river’s power.

(There is no Starbucks in Devon yet, but one can almost feel its approach, shrouded in a mixture of caffeinated anticipation and nostalgic dread).

This is a city masquerading as a small town. Its residents post quaint and Rockwellian pictures to their social media accounts while they languish in traffic. Traffic caused by the town’s unwillingness to acknowledge either its increased population or their vehicles. Both Devon’s Fire Department as well as its Police force reflect the realities of the town from twenty years ago, rather than today; and both organizations feel the strain of their duties. “Centuries of change, unimpeded by progress” is a familiar refrain on both sides of those lines.

With its cobblestoned sidewalks and increasingly limited parking, River Road’s evolution has been accelerated in recent years. Businesses, residents, and benches change and move and adjust, bowing to pressures both economic and cultural. Online retailers and corporations have forced the drug and convenience stores either out of business, or to cheaper rental spaces elsewhere. The River Road bookstore still clings defiantly to life in the face of such pressures, supported by an increasingly older clientele and those to whom the smell and feel of non digital media appeals. Barely thirty years in residence, the bookstore, in the broader sense, is a relatively older establishment on River Road. Every other business is less than a five years old.

Save one.

One concern bears closer attention; 177 River Road. It is nestled (at least for now) between a high-priced chocolate shop (River Road: whose owners are already laying off employees to cover the shortcoming in their budget) and a store that appears to sell only denim clothing ( this one is newer, and one can almost feel the optimistic denial from its front windows—a cheery indigo display hoping to be the exception, rather than the River Road rule). Incorporated into the brickwork above its front door are letters, though the initial contrast between stone and sign have faded through the years – decades of exhaust and time leaving the distinction between the two nearly impossible to discern. The street side wall of this building (as with most of those on River Road) is red brick—whereas the bricks used to form the lettering could perhaps be best described as ‘slightly less red in the right light and from the correct angle…maybe.’  This subtle brickwork is invisible unless one is armed with knowledge of its existence. Much the same is the shop itself; though it has been in place and business for nearly as long as Devon has laid claim to the riverbank.

“EST” lies embedded in the bricks above the store’s street entrance. This lettering (in the rare instance that it is observed) gives the potential customer no insight as to the purpose, origin, or commerce of this establishment.

A glimpse through the somewhat dusty and oddly curtained front windows lends little additional clues. It appears, at least at first glance, to be a store that sells…antiques? Knickknacks? Bric a brac? Curios? Some sort of odds and ends, surely. On a small table, through the window flanking the front door (to the left) looks to be the better half of a screwdriver set. It sits between a set of fishing flies and a book so neglected, one is reminded of the origin of the dust jacket. Indeed, if EST were a business specializing in dust, it would appear that the owners are sitting on a proverbial goldmine. In the mid-morning early summer sun, all of 177 River seems gauzy and insubstantial, coated as it is in time’s fine powder; from the storefront to the living space above.

Past the cobblestones, between the two dusty display windows, and underneath the brickwork lies the door. In direct contrast to the rest of EST’s appearance, this door glows. Deep, honeyed oak behind an impossibly bright brass knob (which is spared a patina—polished—by countless years of steady use), it appears spotless; in direct contradiction with its surroundings. The door has no pane of glass nor mail slot; it is both stunning and severe. When EST is noticed by those who walk or drive on River Road, it is the door that draws their eyes. It invites wonder but not examination, somehow worthy of appreciation rather than operation. It is not a door that begs to be opened, it is an entrance that you have somehow already exited.

EST attracts little attention, and less business, from River Road’s foot traffic. Few people give it more than a cursory glance as they stroll the sidewalk. Some, seemingly unconsciously, drift closer to the street and further from its doorway as they walk past—as if moving to avoid an obstacle. It has been an untouched and unchanging part of the background for so long, it lands as simply ‘present’ in the minds of Devon’s inhabitants, when they notice or think of it at all. It is an assumed piece of scenery.

Which is exactly how the owner, resident, and sole employee of 177 River prefers it.