The French symbol of their country is Marianne- that imaginary woman, yet real- they choose the image of a real woman- who for the French somehow represents their soul, the spirit of the French nation… it is no accident that the Statue of Liberty, given by the French to the US, is also a woman. Very feminine, yet not overtly erotic- Marianne symbolizes the soul that makes up the idea of France.

…And so maybe it’s no surprise that Harrisville, New Hampshire, that became Parisville in my fiction- The Porch of Common Prayer– also became somehow embodied- literally and figuratively- as a young lady: Miriam Sharrock, who grew up in Harrisville, daughter of Jim and Cheryl Sharrock, who still live in Harrisville. And so has Miriam, all her life- so far- except for her college years, when she lived in Keene, while getting her BA at Keene State University, where Miriam majored in music.

And how does a pretty, talented woman become somehow the symbol of a community?

Not by trying. Just by being herself. Modest, warm in spirit. Pretty, yes- all the French Mariannes have also been pretty. Or even beautiful. But some particular kind of beauty and prettiness.

And some kind of poise and presence. The poise and presence of, well, not stillness, exactly- Miriam does talk. But there’s also some kind of listening. She’s a musician and composer first- she grew up in a musical family. And while her parents teach music at Keene State- they have also performed- James, Cheryl, Miriam, and her brother, Chris- at the Harrisville Farmer’s Market, held adjacent to the Harrisville General Store..

The town just closes Vine Street (which is no big accomplishment, it’s more like a short driveway along the side of the store). -And that’s where the venders- aka local citizens who raise sheep for food and wool, and vegetables, nice to look at but also destined to be eaten- sell their produce to their fellow townspeople, and whomever else might show up and wander by. But it’s a very local production.

And there, with their backs to- and their power cord, for the electric piano plugged into- the Harrisville General Store… if you’re lucky you’ll find the Sharrock family performing.

Miriam included.

And that, I thought, was somehow magical and wonderful… this tiny town, this one step away from miniscule general store, this street that is barely a street- more like a big driveway- blocked off, for a few hours, so the townspeople could gather there, on a warm but not too warm summer evening, the sun finally setting behind the hill rising to the west…

The music echoing off the ancient brick side wall of the general store- ancient by American standards, of course. As in 1838- built yesterday if your country has a Chartres cathedral.

And the next day, and this being summer, Miriam at the store, bright and early, waiting on customers as they line up at the bakery and everything else counter for breakfast. Always pleasant, and she looks you in the eye.

And always in some way, present. And calm.

It can get hectic in that little store, not because there are crowds of people there- there aren’t- never- and never will be.  Harrisville downtown- if that’s what you’d call it- on a good day barely has parking for the people who live there and want to pick up something to go- or something to eat and or drink right there on the front porch of the Harrisville General Store, or maybe inside, at the fewer than a half dozen tables inside…

Don’t come crowding, world, to Harrisville. There’s no beach, no mountain, about one other store downtown. And no parking.

But the store- being so tiny- on both sides of the counter, does get crowded. And sometimes, by its standards- very crowded. And with that tiny kitchen in the back producing made to order meals- busy.

And yet there always was Miriam- the longest serving store employee, starting there at 16, the minimum age for working for someone else in New Hampshire. All the years to her mid 20s. Summers, weekends. Always, I think, the music- her music- in her head (is that what keeps her so calm?).

Some kind of unheard and yet visible music. That everyone heard, just by her presence.

And she’s still that way. And I don’t know how she does it. Or is it.

But it does kind of explain why, now as a therapeutic masseuse, with her own small studio at the Harrisville Inn- just down the street… I imagine some part of that calm, that spirit goes through those same fingers that touch the piano keys when Miriam’s composing or performing music.

Well, I don’t know how she does it. That music she hears in her imagination, before she plays it, or as she plays it. But also some kind of music, some kind of music in her spirit that – you’d like to think is also the spirit of the people of Harrisville at their best- as they believe in themselves as a town.

And now it has also become- through Edie’s painting of Miriam- the spirit of Parisville in The Porch of Common Prayer. Miriam on the cover of The Porch of Common Prayer…

And that happened- or began to happen- one summer morning, I think it was, because there was sunlight on the porch, and it was warm- yet not too hot, not high midsummer sun, but a nice sunlight, a nice warmth…

Edie happened to have her little digital camera with her- just in case. I think she just had it in mind that she’d like to take a picture of someone, or somethings, or a landscape- I don’t know. Some reference photos. Maybe she had the porch in mind. The porch, that is, of the Harrisville General Store.

Maybe she had those Greek Revival columns. Maybe that beautiful, soft orange of the Harrisville brick. Or maybe someone like Miriam.

I don’t know. I do know, just as there’s always some music in Miriam’s spirit, and I imagine also always sounding in her imagination, her mind’s ear- for Edie there are always images, and colors. Of people, places, objects.

Or in the same way a writer, this writer- always hears- and sees- in some way- words.

What happened, I do know, was that my lady- for whom vision is so much part of her- saw this other lady- Miriam- in a bright red blouse, a red that matched the geraniums above her in the flowerpots suspended from the store front porch ceiling. Miriam standing there at the other end of the small store’s small porch, chatting with someone she knew…

So… a pretty woman, yes. but also thoughtful, some kind of conversation going on, with this unseen (mostly unseen) other lady who was sitting back to the store front, on the porch, at that little round metal Parisian café sort of table on the far (which was not very far) end of the porch.

And Edie took Miriam’s picture, the red blouse and the red flowers, against the green and the Harrisville orange brick, the dove grey road, the blue sky beyond the far mill building.

And Edie asked Miriam if she could turn that picture- or some version of it, into a painting.

…and Miriam said yes.

She trusted Edie.

…and then, as Harrisville became in my imagination Parisville, and I was wondering- what image, or whom or what- would you want for The Porch of Common Prayer.

…There was that painting of Miriam, the Marianne of Harrisville, become the Marianne of Parisville for The Porch of Common Prayer .

While Miriam of Harrisville goes right on listening to that mysterious but beautiful music in her soul.

© Peter Tuttle, text and photos. all rights reserved.