Vermont
Like everyone, I’ve heard for years of Vermont’s beauty, but never ventured there. This year, I leave Portland, Maine and zip straight to tiny Grover, pop. 1,114, in what’s known as the North East Kingdom, or NEK. Kingdom? Hmmm. Doesn’t seem to align with the state’s crunchy-organic, outdoorsy, leftie reputation. Wikipedia, here I come.
The drive from Portland to Grover (it’s near St. Johnsbury, if that helps) was so stunning I wanted to stop every half mile: artistically decaying barns, luscious deep green pines against blue mountains, rolling grassy meadows, farms upon farms upon colonial, pseudo-colonial, Victorian, psedo-Victorian manses, beat-down shacks, trim cabins, mobile homes in various states of repair. Between towns, the buildings are widely spaced (Vermont boasts only 1 million residents); small towns tend to align themselves along the main roads (89, 91?), homes and businesses lined up roadside like a parade crowd.
My home for two nights is a two-storey, cornflower blue clapboard facing [road name]. My host has told me they’ll be out when I arrive; the door’s unlocked—I should just come on in and find my room upstairs. Apparently there are no home invasions here — or, more likely, they are kept at bay by the watchful eyes of everybody in town, i.e., next door. Two doors down in a well-stocked general store and deli; across the road, the tiny Busy Bee diner.
My room is clean and welcoming but hot and stuffy; it’s 88 degrees out, unusual here. I text my host from my room, and she produces a window fan that moves the air nicely, and provides welcome buffer against the roaring pickups that seem to have urgent Vermont business until late into the night. Why? I later learn that this road is Vermont’s main thoroughfare, blasting through every outpost, village and, well, bigger town. Burlington, the capital and the biggest city in Vermont, boasts 40,000 residents.
My host is warm and somewhat giggly; she’s cleaning wild onions they foraged yesterday, which is a slow job … [English teacher in France, husband’s English]
“How’s the food at the Busy Bee?” I ask.
“It’s …. okaay.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Big portions too. It’s very small. … We usually go to the store—it’s a good deli.”
Cold cuts for breakfast don’t thrill me, but I do need coffee. The waitress … Black Mountain music festival “I thought about moving there.”
While not the bougie latte I prefer, the coffee’s fine, and I take off with it down the road. There’s a cool nursery, with rows and rows of tiny plants sporting white name tags laid out on a slope near a brook. Over a bridge and farther down the nursery road is a grassy hill studded with dandelions and showcasing two more shamelessly glorious old barns. On the main road, I try to find a small junk and oddities shop my host had told me about, but come across more old houses, a shiny _____ car, and a dead skunk. On the side of the road, and he doesn’t smell at all. Note to self: how long does it take a dead skunk to stop stinking? Or perhaps it got hit so fast it didn’t have time to squirt? A mile down the road, I’m sweat-soaked. My fault: It’s 87 degrees; I’m wearing thick winter jeans. Do-over. I spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around in my room waiting for the cooloff.
By 3:30 it’s a bit cooler and, wearing more sensible clothes, I take off up _______ hill to check out ________’s Pies. The waitress at the Busy Bee had promised I’d love it. Exercise, if nothing else: It’s 2.5 miles, mostly uphill to get there.
