The Green Mountain State of Vermont is a very interesting biosphere of humanity and culture. It has a so very small populace woven from so very diverse life experiences. At least, that is my view of the changing face of Vermont demographics. I myself came to claim Vermont as my home in 1985. An over-eager college graduate from Connecticut, I came to begin my adult life beside my fiance in pursuit of "our American dream". In those days, I was a transplant snob of sorts; guffawing at the pseudo urbanites in Chittenden county as we beat feet to get out of that artificial replica of contemporary Vermont.
We settled in the Lamoille Valley in 1987 with youthful vigor in our quest to harness the Vermont hill farming life that we dreamed of. We started several business, beg
an a family and crashed our dream in divorce court seventeen years later. Fortunately, time carries on and I've rooted myself perennially here at this old farmstead, defending the Vermont life of past generations and shunning the steady sowing of "flatlanders" bent on reforming these hills. In this, I have met the most wonderful people, inlanders and outlanders alike, and become part of this town in its ritual and rhythm year round. The balance is often razor thin as old standards are cast off for the "new and improved" version of community building. I escape this tide of "more is better" running Vermont roads on motorcycles; a culture that has afforded me the most genuine friendships and adventures that I could hope for. This day, I was on the phone with a favored biker buddy when he pondered why. Why would some one with all my over-educated, comfortable, suburban roots want to hang out with some one lik
e him? He doesn't see himself as smart or worldly.
'Not so', I think to myself. He's a contractor, a Vermonter born-and-bred, living on a road on a mountain that was named for his family. He's been here awhile. His stories of hunting, fishing, camping, living are spell binding to a 23 year plus flatlander like me. As he puzzled his value in my life, I drifted back to an endearing story he shared on one of our outings. He qualified the tale as his favorite story about being a single dad raising his son alone. In this daily challenge, we had much in common. As a single mom, I listened intently to his recollection of how he acquired a small, tattered key chain clip buried in the bowels of his work truck.
"Don't ever clean out my truck. In the side wall, I have the first present my son ever gave me. He was just a little feller when he gave me this plastic key ring. It's just a little thing, but it meant so much to me. . . still does. Don't ever clean out my truck. . ." as he swallowed a father's tear. I smiled softly and leaned into him in agreement. The recollection melted as I interrupted the present phone conversation with a weak interjection:
"you are one of the smartest people I have ever known. Someday, I'll tell you why I think so. . ." my thoughts now fading into a long ago afternoon. I have a similar story, but it took me months to grasp the value back then. We said our good-byes and I lay across my bed unfolding a precious memory of my first born child giving me a tender gift on a hot July day when I was disenchanted with the world and my seemingly futile place in it. I had ridden a horse in the small town parade that day, struggling with the crowd, the truck horns and a powerful horse impatient with the baby-step pace of it all. After getting the big mare home, I returned to the town party hot, sweaty, agitated. It didn't go the way I wanted; it was not my best presentation of a magnificent horse. My daughter was perhaps 6 years old and having a grand time at the small carnival. When she saw my unhappiness, she persuaded her father to let her buy a ring from a jewelry tent. She presented it to me with an earnest smile and kind offering.
"this will help you feel better, mommy. . ." I looked at the over sized gypsy like ring and gave a dismissive sigh.
"oh, you shouldn't have spent your money on me. . . it's too big, can you take it back. . ." her face fell and I scolded myself for not saying thank you.
"I'll wear it on my thumb. It'll be fine. . ." as she strolled off with dad for more fun. I sat there, still guiling over my poor performance, and the odd ring. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it till laundry needed doing. I put it in a cup, then a drawer, then a box. Weeks later, I would hold it and ponder a child's heart. I began to wear it on my right thumb every day, trying to live up to the sincerity of the gift. Some months later, I lost the humble symbol but recall the value of it vividly. Hearing my biker buddy's story made me tearfully long for that toy-like ring gone missing years ago. The answer to his minutes-old question: why I think he is just about the smartest man I've met. Not just because he can solve any functional problem; it
is because this very competent, able, thoughtful, woodsman with a Harley Low Rider sees with his heart first. As time goes by, the value of my college education(s) become less and less relevant and the "university of life" has become the institution of higher learning. The lessons bestowed me during my days and months and years in Vermont have interwoven like an organic tapestry of living, learning, doing ~ better than I could have youthfully imagined. Ever the student, must be I belong here; always seeking knowledge, must be I needed to know him. . . some day, I'll have to tell him why and I promise; I'll never clean out his truck. . .
peace ~ ell
this one is for them that see with their hearts first . . .
; "I've got that all figured out for you. I will get a side car so you can ride with me. If you are in a wheel chair, I'll modify the side car so you could roll right in, like a chariot. Then off we'd go; it'll be awesome. . ." I was elated, with all of this. Not just that there was a solution to my "worst-case-scenario"; but that this humble, green mountain man, imagined an exceptional solution so that I, and other differently abled persons, could feel the wind in their face and hear the thunder of Harley loud pipes. His spirit of "all things are possible and most of them doable" lifted my spirits and painted my future hopes and dreams the color of indigo ~ the color of imagination, the color of hope. When we said good bye and I drifted cheerfully into a sidecar day-dream, it was then I remembered that his eyes are a very warm blue as well. . . then thought, what other genius he might imagine for a differently-abled biker chick like me.
