We all read it back in High School. Farenheit 451, the blissful future all schoolkids looked forward to. The day when books no longer existed. No more reading forced upon us by work-crazed teachers who simply did not understand how much time we spent on our hair, or mastering that new trick shot on the basketball court. Back then, we equated reading with work. More specifically, work we did not want to do.
Since our high school days, reading has taken a whole different place in our lives. Now, we read to pass the time, to get a little time to ourselves, and escape. "Don't talk to Mom, she is in the middle of a book," Dad might say to a pleading child one Saturday afternoon, "What can I help you with?"
In adulthood, reading has also become a way to say something. It has become common practice for coaches like Duke's Mike Krzyzewski and Lakers Coach Phil Jackson to give out books before each season. These mentors-of-men often hand out the tomes as a way to teach others a valuable lesson. Even if the book was forgotten on the shelf for years, the day it was read, the lesson would still be just as true. The coaches found that they could impart life lessons through books, which have the unique ability to still stay just as fresh years later.
The thing is, that books do just that. they don't expire, and they don't wilt with age. They are just as good to read after ten or twenty years as they were when they were printed. It is great for books, but not so great for booksellers. There was a time in this country when there was a busy newsstand / bookstore in every town. As the car spread us out, bookstores consolidated into larger stores, spaced farther apart. Gone then was the neighborhood bookstore. As shopping malls popped up across the country, many of the independent bookstores were driven out of business by chains in climate-controlled shopping centers. Fifteen years ago, the really big chains came through. Borders and Barnes and Noble sprouted up across the country and dealt a further blow to small booksellers with sledge hammer grace.
Still, somehow, small booksellers persevered. Singe stores, or small regional chains still eked out a niche in the shrinking market by adding coffee shops and really getting to know their local customer's interests. Some only dealt in used books, leaving the bestsellers for the big chains with their heavily discounted prices. Others became more like local historians, bringing together local authors, and regional histories with avid readers. It was a good thing, until the internet and Amazon came along.
In the past five or ten years, many local, independent booksellers finally threw in the towel when the internet giant Amazon.com came around. Amazon, dealing with publishers to get the best prices on books anywhere, could undercut all others, and what's more, they had literally everything ever published. Even with shipping, they had your book to you in two days, and there was no more going to three shops on a Saturday to find the book you could not live without. Lives were made easier and all was well, but for the independent bookstores.
Now there is an even more foreboding future for the little guys in the book business. It really began in earnest last year around the holidays. With proprietary names like Kindle and Nook, the e-book has come in to the market swinging. Even now, the ads are all over the radio, working hard to make e-book readers the "Tickle-Me Elmo" for adult readers everywhere.
They have their merits. E-books sell the works for less than the paper copies can go for. You don't have to drive anywhere to get them. If you want to practice your French or Spanish, you can literally flip a switch and there you go. Plus, you have free books made available through Project Gutenberg, and they are search-able. That is, if you just needed to know, you could download the complete works of William Shakespeare and then search out for keywords to find that the three witches were in Macbeth; Act IV, Scene 1.
But where will it leave the stalwart independent booksellers who have not succumbed to the onslaught of competition in the newly global book game? Some are calling it the digital dilemma. Where will the paper guys be left in an age where internet competition can undercut them by as much as 50% instantly, from the couch. They have been valued members of the community for decades. They have built up a loyal customer base, but lets be honest, the face behind the counter is only friendly in this day and age. There might not be much need for them in the future.
The transition will not be as enthusiastic as in Bradbury's novel. Kids may not be left with such trivia as the precise burning point of paper when the last paper book is removed from store shelves. But the end result might be just the same. It could be the end of the line for books. Whittled down from a neighborhood hot-spot, to a file; whizzing through cyberspace in a nanosecond. In Bradbury's story, learning was the enemy. Independent thought went against the rules, and reading was the harbinger of critical thought. In this 21st Century reality, some sixty years after the original hit the marketplace, critical thought abounds. Reading is no longer the enemy, but the book still is.
Back in High School, some friends of mine and I went out to an unpopulated barrier island on spring break. A bad gale blew in and stranded us. We had to burn a school copy of Lord of the Flies to keep warm that night. I thought it was strangely poetic. Perhaps when I am ready to buy my next e-book it should be Fahrenheit 451.
Showing posts with label Neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neighbors. Show all posts
Don't mention it.
The bumper sticker that had obviously resided across the back of the rusty Honda for some time read "I'm a Vermonta, I do what I wanta."
Originally, it called to mind all of the other classic Vermont sayings. "You can't get there from here." "Go right up the road a ways... you can't miss it." And the like. But this one was different. It called to mind the individuality and independent nature of Vermonters. We might just be the most stubborn state in the union.
We really do what we want to. We saw a need, and passed first-in-the-nation same-sex spousal benefits. When Governor Davis saw the clutter and trash lining Vermont's roadways back in the 70s, he shut down the interstate and motivated the entire state to clean itself.
Vermonters way back in history have really done what they wanted too. We were not one of the thirteen original colonies, we were still making up our minds at the time. Most folks don't know it, but Vermont is one of two or three states that was at one time its own country. The Republic of Vermont was a short-lived, but important part of the state's history of independent-mindedness. For more information, a trip to Windsor, Vermont, would be in order.
That independent nature really shows its head in the little things. A recent trip to the lake with a friend on his new-to-him $500 speedboat shows it well.
Of course, the boat started when he first tried it, but then it sputtered and wouldn't start again. The boat's battery was dead, and getting a jump start on the water is a bit more difficult than in the Wal-Mart parking lot. So, while his first mate made a run for a second (hopefully fully-charged) battery, he was left literally holding the boat alongside the dock, hoping to not be in the way as others used the boat launch.
The first mate's trip was only fifteen minutes or so, but that left a lot of comings and goings at the boat launch. Everyone who passed by was concerned. One couple coming in off the water loaned a spare battery and the boat came alive again. He ran it for a minute to charge the first battery, and gave it back.
"Don't mention it," they said. "We've been there before. That is why we carry a spare battery."
A concerned husband and father was milling about, waiting for his wife and kids to get back on their maiden voyage around the lake in a new paddleboat. A friendly conversation sprang up which led to an offer to go out on the powerboat and have a look around the lake, once the first mate got back.
Now, no one would suggest that a new boater on his first time out in a new (and very used) boat would be the best candidate for a rescue mission after a paddleboat, at dusk. But, we were testing the motorboat anyway, and keeping an eye out for the yellow boat was not too much trouble. We saw them at dusk, still quite some ways from the boat dock. They were tired, but still moving.
We exchanged messages and tried to tow the little boat, but ended up pulling it sideways and almost swamping it. It was tense there for a minute, but we untied in time and everyone was still right side up. The little boat paddled to a landing nearby, and we continued on our way, making one last trip around the lake testing the steering and pumps.
By the time the motorboat pulled up to the boat launch, the family was safely ashore and they stopped by to say thanks. We didn't even recognize the boaters without their life jackets, and were caught off-guard when they approached us. We were busy trying to get the boat situated on the trailer and out of the water in the dark. For us, I think the chance to help had been a failure.We almost swamped their little craft and they ended up paddling in themselves. For the boaters, however, we must have seemed like a lifeline, with lights and a motor as the sun was going down.
As we were tying the boat down safely on the trailer before heading home, a teenage boy in a too-cool-for-me ball cap abruptly called out, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," we said, hardly looking up from our work. It wasn't until later that it really sunk in. For him to come up to total strangers like that really speaks volumes. We were only doing what any Vermonter would have. We were just doing our part. That night, it made a difference.
Originally, it called to mind all of the other classic Vermont sayings. "You can't get there from here." "Go right up the road a ways... you can't miss it." And the like. But this one was different. It called to mind the individuality and independent nature of Vermonters. We might just be the most stubborn state in the union.
We really do what we want to. We saw a need, and passed first-in-the-nation same-sex spousal benefits. When Governor Davis saw the clutter and trash lining Vermont's roadways back in the 70s, he shut down the interstate and motivated the entire state to clean itself.
Vermonters way back in history have really done what they wanted too. We were not one of the thirteen original colonies, we were still making up our minds at the time. Most folks don't know it, but Vermont is one of two or three states that was at one time its own country. The Republic of Vermont was a short-lived, but important part of the state's history of independent-mindedness. For more information, a trip to Windsor, Vermont, would be in order.
That independent nature really shows its head in the little things. A recent trip to the lake with a friend on his new-to-him $500 speedboat shows it well.
Of course, the boat started when he first tried it, but then it sputtered and wouldn't start again. The boat's battery was dead, and getting a jump start on the water is a bit more difficult than in the Wal-Mart parking lot. So, while his first mate made a run for a second (hopefully fully-charged) battery, he was left literally holding the boat alongside the dock, hoping to not be in the way as others used the boat launch.
The first mate's trip was only fifteen minutes or so, but that left a lot of comings and goings at the boat launch. Everyone who passed by was concerned. One couple coming in off the water loaned a spare battery and the boat came alive again. He ran it for a minute to charge the first battery, and gave it back.
"Don't mention it," they said. "We've been there before. That is why we carry a spare battery."
A concerned husband and father was milling about, waiting for his wife and kids to get back on their maiden voyage around the lake in a new paddleboat. A friendly conversation sprang up which led to an offer to go out on the powerboat and have a look around the lake, once the first mate got back.
Now, no one would suggest that a new boater on his first time out in a new (and very used) boat would be the best candidate for a rescue mission after a paddleboat, at dusk. But, we were testing the motorboat anyway, and keeping an eye out for the yellow boat was not too much trouble. We saw them at dusk, still quite some ways from the boat dock. They were tired, but still moving.
We exchanged messages and tried to tow the little boat, but ended up pulling it sideways and almost swamping it. It was tense there for a minute, but we untied in time and everyone was still right side up. The little boat paddled to a landing nearby, and we continued on our way, making one last trip around the lake testing the steering and pumps.
By the time the motorboat pulled up to the boat launch, the family was safely ashore and they stopped by to say thanks. We didn't even recognize the boaters without their life jackets, and were caught off-guard when they approached us. We were busy trying to get the boat situated on the trailer and out of the water in the dark. For us, I think the chance to help had been a failure.We almost swamped their little craft and they ended up paddling in themselves. For the boaters, however, we must have seemed like a lifeline, with lights and a motor as the sun was going down.
As we were tying the boat down safely on the trailer before heading home, a teenage boy in a too-cool-for-me ball cap abruptly called out, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," we said, hardly looking up from our work. It wasn't until later that it really sunk in. For him to come up to total strangers like that really speaks volumes. We were only doing what any Vermonter would have. We were just doing our part. That night, it made a difference.
What is appropriate?
It might not have been your first thought, but I am really talking about road uses.
This topic came to me this morning when a couple things happened.
First, I caught the President's comment: "I am looking for whose ass to kick" in relation to the oil spill. That got me thinking about whether that was appropriate or not... Actually, I liked his bravado. It was very John Wayne, very American. We all are pissed about this, and he is merely voicing it. Was it appropriate? perhaps not. Should the leader of the free world be able to say "ass"? I think so. Others don't.
Then, There was a report of a Town of Moretown, VT road meeting last night in which the town selectboard discussed the use and keeping of several Class IV roads. For the uninitiated, Class IV roads are the bottom of the barrel, unmaintained roads that are still legal roads for all sorts of travel. They may only look like dirt paths or horse trails, but anyone with a bicycle or pair of shoes is legally able to travel these roads.
So what? you say, we can also travel on the area's bike paths, and recreation trails. Ok, you are right. but did it ever occur to you that many of them do not really go anywhere? Class IV roads connect towns by unmaintained roads. You can actually go over the top of the mountain to get lunch in the next village. You can take a hike to go someplace, rather than walking along the shoulder of the busy roads. If you have never visited one, you should. They are (thankfully) mapped clearly on the good topographical Vermont book maps, and readily identifiable driving around (if you see Road X East, and Road X West, they connect via the Class IV road).
These connector trails / Class IV roads are really a gem, but for the past few years (like 5) the towns and the state have been trying to decide whether each of them should stay on the roster of town roads. On one hand, they cost nothing, hey are unmaintained. On the other, neighbors who might have been misled by a real-estate professional who did not know any better, do complain when people use them. These folks have camps or live next to a road that might only be used one day a week when folks are out of work and have time on their hands. It might only be used once a month. The rest of the time, they mow across it, or park their cars on it, and never have a second thought.
Until, that is, somebody comes riding through on an enduro motorcycle, or walking by their kitchen window unexpectedly using the Class IV road. "How dare they?" the person might ask. "They didn't even knock and ask first," they might exclaim.
Even though the use might be unexpected, on such an unfrequented road, I argue that it is appropriate. The thing is, when these people have such a knee-jerk reaction to travel on such a road, they might yell at the user, or yell at the town. It is a matter of perspective, from their perspective it might seem like folks are just willy-nilly riding bicycles or driving through their back yard. That is a legitimate concern. If they are crunching the vegetable patch, that could be even worse.
The thing is, that even though they might mow it, it is a road. Just like other roads, it is subject to travel. Travel by anyone, or anything legal for travel along the state's roads. Use is to be expected. Use is why they are there. Towns have been wary of eliminating them because of the potential for some eventual benefits of use down the line.
In city neighborhoods, there is use that is unwelcome. Residents are woken by late night motorcyclists, and early morning garbage4 trucks. Just because the garbage trucks tend to use different roads, does not mean that they should be prevented from using Class IV roads. Neighbors of these thoroughfares need to understand that what is appropriate use, and what they might like to see, might be two different things.
That Barack Obama wants to "kick some ass" is his right as an American. That others would have preferred that he sugar coat the message before saying it on TV, does not make it inappropriate.
If you support the position to keep Class IV roads open to free travel, please let the Town Clerk know.
This topic came to me this morning when a couple things happened.
First, I caught the President's comment: "I am looking for whose ass to kick" in relation to the oil spill. That got me thinking about whether that was appropriate or not... Actually, I liked his bravado. It was very John Wayne, very American. We all are pissed about this, and he is merely voicing it. Was it appropriate? perhaps not. Should the leader of the free world be able to say "ass"? I think so. Others don't.
Then, There was a report of a Town of Moretown, VT road meeting last night in which the town selectboard discussed the use and keeping of several Class IV roads. For the uninitiated, Class IV roads are the bottom of the barrel, unmaintained roads that are still legal roads for all sorts of travel. They may only look like dirt paths or horse trails, but anyone with a bicycle or pair of shoes is legally able to travel these roads.
So what? you say, we can also travel on the area's bike paths, and recreation trails. Ok, you are right. but did it ever occur to you that many of them do not really go anywhere? Class IV roads connect towns by unmaintained roads. You can actually go over the top of the mountain to get lunch in the next village. You can take a hike to go someplace, rather than walking along the shoulder of the busy roads. If you have never visited one, you should. They are (thankfully) mapped clearly on the good topographical Vermont book maps, and readily identifiable driving around (if you see Road X East, and Road X West, they connect via the Class IV road).
These connector trails / Class IV roads are really a gem, but for the past few years (like 5) the towns and the state have been trying to decide whether each of them should stay on the roster of town roads. On one hand, they cost nothing, hey are unmaintained. On the other, neighbors who might have been misled by a real-estate professional who did not know any better, do complain when people use them. These folks have camps or live next to a road that might only be used one day a week when folks are out of work and have time on their hands. It might only be used once a month. The rest of the time, they mow across it, or park their cars on it, and never have a second thought.
Until, that is, somebody comes riding through on an enduro motorcycle, or walking by their kitchen window unexpectedly using the Class IV road. "How dare they?" the person might ask. "They didn't even knock and ask first," they might exclaim.
Even though the use might be unexpected, on such an unfrequented road, I argue that it is appropriate. The thing is, when these people have such a knee-jerk reaction to travel on such a road, they might yell at the user, or yell at the town. It is a matter of perspective, from their perspective it might seem like folks are just willy-nilly riding bicycles or driving through their back yard. That is a legitimate concern. If they are crunching the vegetable patch, that could be even worse.
The thing is, that even though they might mow it, it is a road. Just like other roads, it is subject to travel. Travel by anyone, or anything legal for travel along the state's roads. Use is to be expected. Use is why they are there. Towns have been wary of eliminating them because of the potential for some eventual benefits of use down the line.
In city neighborhoods, there is use that is unwelcome. Residents are woken by late night motorcyclists, and early morning garbage4 trucks. Just because the garbage trucks tend to use different roads, does not mean that they should be prevented from using Class IV roads. Neighbors of these thoroughfares need to understand that what is appropriate use, and what they might like to see, might be two different things.
That Barack Obama wants to "kick some ass" is his right as an American. That others would have preferred that he sugar coat the message before saying it on TV, does not make it inappropriate.
If you support the position to keep Class IV roads open to free travel, please let the Town Clerk know.
Spring Cleaning
Why can't I ever seem to throw anything away?
Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.
I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).
I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.
Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.
Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?
Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.
Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.
Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.
Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two.
I am a junk collector, after all.
Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.
I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).
I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.
Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.
Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?
Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.
Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.
Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.
Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two.
I am a junk collector, after all.
Being a Vermonter
You know, it really does take a special sort of person to live in Vermont. I'm not talking about the wherewithal to live through the seven-month winters or black flies, either. It is one thing to forgo pizza delivery and corner markets voluntarily in the move, (The latter is here of course, but that corner might be a ten minute drive away) it is another to embody the real spirit of Vermont.
Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.
For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.
Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.
Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.
I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.
Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.
Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.
I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.
This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away. Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.
It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?
Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.
For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.
Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.
Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.
I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.
Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.
Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.
I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.
This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away. Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.
It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
