In 1989 , I interviewed and photographed Steve Hall and included her in my book Vermont
People. At the time, she was the best director in Vermont of amateur plays, which were performed at the Lamoille County Opera House in Hyde Park. She retired when she was 86, and that was in 1988. I had just read in the papers that she had celebrated her 105th birthday. I had called her in the past, but then let time slip by without a visit. I felt guilty and maybe that was why I kept putting it off. You see, it was because of Steve and her husband that I am in Vermont.

Steve lives in a red frame house at the far end of Main Street in Hyde Park. She and her late husband bought the house in 1951. I knocked. No reply. I opened the door and walked in. “Steve?” There was the red chair in which I had taken her picture 19 years ago. Next to it, that peculiar red Victorian couch. Backrests are humped up on either end of this long couch. The center seems to be no man’s land. Black and white prints and a couple of oils are hanging on the wall, just as they used to be. Time warp.

An archway leads into a den and library. I stuck my head around the corner. No one. I walked into the sitting room and looked left into the dining area. Steve was sitting there, slumped over, with her head flat on the circular dining room table, as if she had passed out. I’ve seen drunks do that. It was so silent I could feel it soak into me; even the old wooden clock in the corner was mute. On the wall behind her were slanting red shelves that held a collection of teapots and cups, a few porcelain figurines, a silver plate with “H” engraved in the middle. Steve’s chair faced a picture window that let in the soft afternoon winter light and looked out on a large flat field, covered with snow and framed by trees. Four people were moving across the field. On snowshoes or skis? It was too far to tell.

The house was warm. I gently touched Steve’s shoulder and said, “ Steve? Her head snapped up and looked at me. “It’s me, Peter. Peter Miller.” “Peter!” She recognized me, or faked it. Steve is quick.

Looking inward, looking back
Her face was smaller than the last time I saw her, when she was 86. Her hair was thinner, bobbed in the back. The wrinkles on her face were etched as if they were cut into a woodblock. Her upper teeth were worn to the nubs. Her eyes retained a blue, penetrating clarity, as they always have. The light in them seemed visionary; the spark ricocheted about and bounced back when she looked into me. Intelligent, quick, penetrating. The high cheekbones gave an austere but classic line to her face. Thin lips, thinner than they were. Her voice was clear, vigorous.

Photo: In 1989, I interviewed and photographed Steve Hall and included her in my book Vermont People. A t the time, she was the best director in Vermont of amateur plays.