Dead Rabbit Drive-by

On watercress, mountain springs, & Portuguese avós

I absently glanced out my home office window to see a man and a woman, both of whom appeared to be in their 70s, wading in the stream that runs between my property and the country lane. They had clambered down into the water and seemed to be looking for something. One has to step deep into a little ravine in order to access the stream, and it’s not easy to climb out once you’re in there, so I was surprised to see this couple up to their shins in the cold spring water that emerges out of the mountain just 25 feet away on my next-door neighbor’s property.

The stream’s source is hidden under an 18th-century springhouse and runs along my road all the way down the mountain to where it joins the Musconetcong River and the main road, which in turn follows the path of the Musky out to Riegelsville, emptying into the Delaware River.

There are chalybeate springs like this all over Schooleys Mountain, which contains deep wells of clean water rich in iron, manganese, and magnesium. In pre-revolutionary times, people began flocking here to bathe in and drink these waters, believing them to be healing. The resorts that drew the visitors are long gone, but the water remains the same, perpetually tinting the sink and toilet with those precious, nourishing minerals.

The water table here is high, and when my basement floods during the increasingly powerful storms in recent years, I try to remain grateful that I live on a mountain full of good, clean water. And it tempers my annoyance with the ancient, rusty well head in the garden that’s flooding my string bean patch as I type this.

My office is a tiny south-facing room that used to be the front porch back when the house was first built as a little New Jersey saltbox in the 1850s. Since then it’s been added onto twice and turned around, with the front door and yard becoming the back. The jumble of additions had ensured that there isn’t a level floor in the entire place. I love it, and I especially revel in my office, which is barely an armspan wide but feels bigger thanks to a wall of windows. The sound of moving water calms and comforts me in every season, from the boisterous spring current to the persistent trickle through the quieting fall and winter.

When I discovered the couple mucking around in the stream, I was more curious than suspicious. I headed outside to inquire what they were looking for, and if anything was wrong. The man had a lot to say, but he spoke only Portuguese, and I don’t speak any, so we struggled to communicate. I gathered that they lived in Newark selling rabbits for their neighbors to eat, and they were on their way to Warren County to get rabbits from a farm run by a relative or friend. They stopped at the stream because they saw it was full of wild watercress and wanted to forage some of the delicate, peppery wild green. I felt embarrassed that after living near this stream for three years, I hadn’t noticed that watercress was the most prolific plant in the stream’s entire ecosystem, even more so than the mugwort, day lilies, and Queen Anne’s lace that overran its banks.

We talked as best we could: something about their adult son, about not having much money, about the wife, who occasionally interjected a few words in Portuguese, being injured or ill. I’m not even certain about these facts; there were many misunderstandings. It was September, and on my porch were several crates of late-season tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants that I was processing for the Community Supported Garden at Genesis Farm to make into sauce or put up for a future farm-to-table dinner. My new friends were delighted when I sent them on their way with a big bag of vegetables to take home.

But the story doesn’t end there. About six weeks later, on Halloween, we had invited a couple of families over to eat dinner before going out trick-or-treating with our kids. When I returned from picking up the pizza, my friend Bryan was standing in the driveway, holding a plastic Shoprite bag and looking puzzled. I asked him what was up, and he said that he had just arrived and was helping his kids out of their seats when a car pulled up and the driver asked him a question in another language. When he didn’t answer, they thrust the bag at him and drove away. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he sent his family inside and waited for me to return.

Inside the bag were two pearlescent, freshly skinned rabbits. I understood how strange the whole scene was, but I smiled. I knew exactly where the rabbits had come from.

I don’t eat a lot of meat, and I had never cooked rabbit before. But I knew that creating something delicious was the correct and respectful way to show appreciation for this thoughtful gift. So my friend butchered the rabbits and we made a cacciatore, savory with wine and lots of seasonal vegetables. Beyond the rich flavors, though, was the satisfaction of feeling close to the land I inhabit and to people who cherish it the way I do. It was a nudge to pay attention, especially to the natural world around me, as well as a reminder stay curious and kind, open to new experiences and people.