It appears there are more mountains than people in Vermont. Other than a nearby traveler who hums, taps, talks to self, sings, etc., Vermont is quiet. I mean really quiet. There are people here, I presume, because I see parked cars at the condo. But there are no voices. Screen doors closed, and solid doors open, but no kind of noise. Even the mosquitoes turned off their engines... and word has it they are considered the Vermont state bird. People can't possibly be working from home at the condos where we stay because the Internet keeps going on the blink. We ran into people at the pool the other night and tried to make conversation with them, and the father and his kid just turned their backs to us and swam to the other end of the pool. Bizarre.
The other thing about Vermont is they are, apparently, "saving trees" one cash register receipt at a time. Frankly, if I don't write down my expenses on the corner of something quickly while the "amount spent" is still in my short term memory bank, my register is going to be an ever-loving disaster. And, strange surprise, you can't do coin parking meters or coin laundry machines here. They only accept "plastic." (How can you open an app when Wi-Fi is still out?) If my parents were to vacation here, they'd go home with dirty laundry because they don't "do plastic." So in the end, a whole generation of people who believe in paying cash for service and are old enough to not work and vacation anywhere they want, won't do it HERE if they have to pay laundry and parking meters with plastic. I'm chalking this one up to another millennial idea to make things faster and jettison human jobs (ie. meter maids).
Oh, Stuff it
Yesterday we went to a place where you can make your own stuffed animals (the company shall remain nameless herein). I could not find anything of an average size below $40. I could have bought a $25 critter made of dense, knobby material - not soft and silky like the others - and They would donate one of the same to an emergency responder station for children in distress. A nice thought. But in the end both the kid and the buyer would not have a silky bear but a knobby one. Something not right, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Are they just trying to "move" knobby bears at a cut-rate? If they donated them ALL couldn't they just grab a tax deduction for charitable purposes - or does Vermont not work like that?
And speaking of fingers... remember the strange photo of the grinning politician wearing mittens? (And it's so much harder to do business and "move money" with mittens on, isn't it - so maybe this slows down crime?) The stuffed animal store had a huge display of like-mittens for sale, perhaps, better to say "for purchase" since the word "sale" implies a bargain. $50 for awkward granny mittens?! Are you people out of your minds?!?
The Love Language of ... FedEx
Ah - signs of life - big foot is stomping up the condo stairs - perhaps Sasquatch vacations here? Then the delivery man booms-out the name of his company and makes someone's day. I heard a woman say, "Oh, they've arrived!" If you've read Chapman's book The Five Love Languages, I am a solid score on "receiving gifts" - so all that to say when the FedEx guy came to deliver furnace filters at my house the other day, I got so happy I almost hugged him. No matter that I purchased them for myself. I think he should yell, "INCOMING!" when he comes up my driveway. I get so excited. I would've made a great mommy to a child inclined to bring me a handful of wilting dandelions. I know I would exclaim with joy: "Posies?! For me?! So beautiful!" and the child would beam and run off to catch salamanders for me and put them in an empty mayonnaise jar with twigs and grass cuttings.
"Writers Write" (Ann Landers)
My travelmates don't think I can hear them as I sit on the porch. They are talking about journaling - and who does it (me), and they don't. People who don't write need something else like smoking or sudoku or crosswords - because if I don't write my head will explode. As I see and experience things, this is the way I process and share the percolations in my head.
It is breezy and cool today - September first - this patio is great. I saw sunrise over the mountains this morning - wow - that one moment with the ball of fire blazing in the sky was so moving. Then I went back to bed. I can stand only so much raw inspiration.
The Men of Vermont
The Grand Silence of Vermont was broken by Rick the bookstore guy. I think I found a book to buy because I felt sorry for him. He was awkwardly masked, somewhere behind the counter surrounded by a tidal wave of tenuously perched books. Any attempt to organize his store at this point would be akin to shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic. the shelves were a disaster of epic proportions. Adrian Monk (the television detective who I plan to marry) would've gone right into a panic attack at the sight of this store.
Sometimes people just talk to me for no reason. My mother has encouraged me to listen more and talk less, to draw other people out. This has mostly turned out to be bad advice. First, because I am bad at it. I find myself interesting and funny and firmly believe everyone else should too (tongue-in-cheek). Second, and more to the point, people tell me stuff I don't need to know.
For instance: the bookstore guy. He told me about someone who returns gifts that he gives them (We can all feel that angst, I agree.) I pointed out to him that perhaps the worst part of that is when we give, we give a piece of our own thoughtfulness, and when that is rejected it hurts our hearts. In effect, it rejects not just the gift, but the giver - I don't need this, is translated to our psyche as, "You have nothing to offer me."
Then he switched to talking about moving from living with roommates to having your own place. (He was in his early 60's so I don't know why this topic rose up) I merely commented how happy I am - when I recall some of my roommate situations - that I now live with three dogs instead of people.
He took that comment to a whole other level and said a psychologist friend told him dogs give to us emotionally and perhaps even biophysically. Huh? To the point: by bringing dirt into our homes dogs build up our immune system by exposing us to other germs for which we subsequently develop antibodies. Irony: he was wearing mask when he said this, and the sign on his door insisted that me and everyone else who entered, vaccinated or not, had to be masked. These types of people drive me crazy. They need to decide whether or not they even truly believe in the vaccine they want to mandate. I looked at him and said something relative to: I have a hard time getting excited about dog shit being tracked into my house. He was quick to assure me he was only referencing dirt. I tried to stammer my way toward wrapping up this odd conversational-free-association-experience.
I was also still mentally boxing-up his comments about food pantries needing to broaden their stock to include women's feminine supplies and how glad he was that we lifted (did we? who is "we"?) the taboo of speaking about such things in public so now we can really help people with what they "need." And, honestly, for all points of the conversation we had, I will always think of this man as the stereotypical Vermont Man Type 1. I couldn't see behind the counter but I bet you five dollars he was wearing Birkenstocks... possibly with socks on.
Vermont Man Type 2's persona would be captured by the guy running a gift shop we stopped by on our way home. I walked into the roadside shop and immediately began trying to mentally identify a funky smell. Not exactly a maryjane smell. Not cigarettes. Perhaps outdated balsam potpourri? But funky nonetheless. And as he sat behind his counter writing - he said - stock identifiers on a piece of paper (as in "Stocks & Bonds") he somehow told us he just sold a house online... in 8 hours ... for $795,000 .... yes 3 zeroes. I assure you if I just made THAT kind of sale I would not be sitting in a run-down gift shop selling maple candies and garden banners to middle-aged fat women fleeing the state.
To look at the guy, I would really expect he'd be playing Jimmy Buffet songs on the store radio. Tee shirt, wavy dark brown hair, middle-aged but strong looking and yet laughed a lot. But he just sat there in the quiet scribbling numbers, talking to himself. I presume he was wearing flip-flops, not Birkenstocks. I also didn't get the impression he voted for Bernie. He was too unapologetic about his financial success. Five bucks says he was born in another state and moved to Vermont.
Vermont Man Type 3 is captured by the painter Norman Rockwell. He is the subject of the "Freedom of Speech" painting in the series on The Four Freedoms. Rockwell, I have been told, puts a trick in each of his paintings - as a result, in order to find this detail, you find yourself pulled in to make you study it more. The Vermont man exercising his Freedom of Speech at a townhall meeting is wearing a plaid flannel jacket. It has buttons; his shirt has a zipper. That's the trick. But it is also the job of a good artist to show you, the viewer, that we have subtle expectations of the things of life - like our clothes - and those can be adjusted without doing damage to the overall picture. I love Rockwell for his ordinary yet exquisite portrayal of American life. Actually, the guy in the painting reminds me of what my friend's dad would have looked like when he was younger... and I imagine in his life he has gotten plenty of use of his freedom of speech.
Vermont - is it open for business?
Vermont is only really open from Thursday to Sunday. Our travel group wanted to try the Flatbread Restaurant that other people raved about in the condo guest book. It had a sign: "Open Thurs- Sun." This was not only a let-down but a point of annoyance because none of our vacation stay overlapped with their "open" hours. And I don't think it was a public health reason that kept them closed. I think they just don't feel like working Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, so they don't. I always thought half the charm of running a small business was meeting people and, for that, you have to have an "Open/Aiberto/Bienvenu" sign... instead of Open Thurs --> Sun. Just sayin'.
The Snake at Hildene
Hildene is a fabulous estate with an amazing garden area built by Robert Lincoln, who is related to - yes - Honest Abe. Their gift shop (which he probably did not build) had the coolest puzzles and I may have found a new hobby... because I need one more thing to do...
The furniture at Hildene looked quite uncomfortable, which in my humble opinion, is a sign of a true antique. Bureaus had lots of drawers and are stained very dark and not too nice. It'd take three strong men and a draft horse to move the sideboard in the Lincoln's dining room.
On our way through the woods to look at the Pullman car (train travel for the rich & famous), one of the travelers looked forward on the gravel drive and said, "ugh. snake." And for those of you inclined to ask, "was it a gardener snake?" I give my standard reply: "I don't care WHAT he does for a living." Ghastly. As I picked up my pace and kept my eyes peeled for his relatives, I no longer was enjoying walking the road. I was also keeping an eye on the dark clouds moving in which were perhaps related to the tropical storm moving inland up the New England coast. I was now breathing like a person who is either pre-asthmatic or quite out of shape. But I got even. On the way of driving out of the Hildene estate my tires ran over something bump-bump, bump-bump.
Pleasant Distractions
I think about two things a lot lately: dying and dating. Not because I am likely to do either of them any time soon, but just because I have a lot of material to consider on each. However, I do not think about dying when I am eating ice cream; nor do I need to be on a date to eat ice cream, so I am glad to report that I enjoyed my frozen favorite almost every day on vacation. I've cut myself down to a single scoop so I feel less remorse: when I get on the scale at home I can blame the # on something else.
Return to Dogland
This morning I dreamt I was living in my apartment in the city again. In the dream I was calling my dogs and they weren't to be seen. One came, I knew it was Madeline. In my sleep I called, screamed, actually, panic-stricken, for my Valor and my Sophia. They were nowhere to be found. I woke up and realized I was home in my own bed, Madeline was nearby and I could hear Valor and Sophia in their respective kennels in the living room waiting for me to be awake and let them out to get this day going. Maybe they were really the ones dreaming of me when I was on vacation in Vermont, wondering why I did not come immediately when they called for me. Nonetheless, here I am, and here they are, and all is right with my world now.
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