Brass Valley: The Fall of an American Industry

by Emery Roth

Tuesday, December 18, 2007


On first view one misses much of the lower pond. Turn away from the sunny embankment posted yesterday. Turn, and the pond opens to a shadowed recess where the eastern wall of the ravine had been.

A pond like this is never completely still. There's always some little thing bubbling up to the surface, a branch cracking, a wood duck gliding out of view behind tree stumps, a breeze on the water that can't be felt. Somewhere in back of this picture the pond spills into a rut beside the old road, then crosses where the road has washed away, passes a clearing where old mattresses and a broken multimedia hutch crumble and rot, tumbles over rock and broken culverts until it again finds a fit stream bed, and heads off toward Thomaston.