Small Town

First off, our stuff is here! Hooray for stuff! Whether it will ever get out of boxes is another story altogether — two busy people and enough boxes for the universe to unpack do not a joyful situation make. Would anyone like to come organize my kitchen while I retreat to the sunroom to get some writing done, perhaps with a snifter of brandy? I’ll make you tea if you holler really loudly that your back is hurting.

The good news is, however, that we have a bed, and God, it will be so good to sleep tonight without the loud “REEARGH” of the air mattress every single time one of us wants to get up to go to the bathroom. This is, of course, followed by an incredible bounce that shoots the remaining sleeper off the edge of the bed into the makeshift cardboard-box night table, taking out the lamp and the alarm clock, along with whatever nighttime beverages the sleeper may have chosen (and Jesus, it’s drier than Death Valley in here, so water is necessary, along with giant pools of Blistex).

I should tell you, too, that one of our movers — a local guy, from Rutland, which is … well, it’s not very close — stood in our kitchen chatting about the primaries and at one point announced TO ME, A WOMAN, “Can you believe we have to choose between a colored guy and a woman? I mean, those are our only choices!”

I think what surprised me most is that he’s obviously a Democrat, given the “we,” and that kind of talk seems … well, it seems against the Democratic stereotype, that’s for sure. And you know, the whole idea that I would be as offended as he is by a woman running for president, never mind the uh, creative use of the word “colored,” is abhorrent and entirely … flooring. Perhaps he was better rooting for ah, someone else, or joining one of Ron Paul’s rabid fanzine writers (Note: I really do mean those nutty writers, and not RP himself.) Jesus. I’m never very good in situations where there is obvious deep-seated prejudice, because — well, at least in this case, the guy was responsible for carting my precious valuables up and down the stairs, so a tongue-lashing would likely have cost me a lamp or two. But generally, I am too stunned to properly respond, although if I’m honest, if someone thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to whip out something as scathing as that in casual conversation, I’m imagining I’m not going to be the one to change his mind, no matter how eloquent my commonition. I realize this is, on some level, wrong, but I generally opt for non-confrontation. (Although the giant “Obama 08″ pin on my bulletin board likely spoke volumes, although to him, it likely meant that coloreds bother me less than women.)

Anyway, I’ll tell you what else is not so fun: living with a pint-size Paul Revere. The dog is on high alert in the new house, and at any given moment can be found running through the hallways barking, “The toilets are flushing! The toilets are flushing!” Like we didn’t know. The same warning is also used when the heat goes on, given that the heat sounds like a legion of tiny gnomes hammering on the baseboards and by God, she is going to sniff those gnomes out and eat them if it kills her. Or at least, she’s going to tell someone about it.

I’d also like to add that this life is both exhilarating and entirely … freaky. Honestly, this town is small. Very small. So small that I had lunch and dinner next to the exact same family, and I quickly realized that it wasn’t a kind of weird coincidence, it’s that this town is that tiny. My next door neighbor has a TOWN HOLIDAY in his honor because he’s “such a nice guy.” I’m sure there’s more to it than that (I hope?), but seriously. Apparently one day a year (not sure when this year’s holiday is/was), the entire town is invited to the local pub to have a beer in Frank’s honor and all proceeds go to the charity of Frank’s choice. It’s … well, Jesus, where the hell AM I, that something like that even EXISTS?

I’m feeling more like JC Wiatt every day, and again, it both excites and freaks me right the hell out. I went to the local natural foods store today and saw pickled baby carrots — from a local pickling lady in a nearby town — on sale for $7.95. SEVEN NINETY FIVE. It’s Country Baby! (Side note: I bought them because I had to try them. Mine are better. Pickled carrot lady might have competition, if I can ever figure out how to can. Watch out, PCL!) And there is a whole lot of “yupping” and “nopeing” and a LOT of overalls. Lots.

Anyway, that’s where I’m at. Still liking it, but utterly spooked by the general tininess and obvious quirks. And town holidays. And Country Baby pickled carrots. Vermont is a little scary, non?

Yup.

*John Mellencamp, of course. I … I own a few of his albums. And I like his wife a whole lot. Stop laughing.

27 comments March 5th, 2008