I WENT HOME AGAIN

I decided to try to ‘go home again’. There is a lot to be said for empirical research. After reviewing to the results of the FOV survey for Caledonia County I felt there voices that hadn’t been heard. Besides I’d not been back to the village and farms of Waterford since I was forced to sell the family farm in 1998. I took with me two other former citizens of Waterford; one grew up working on the local dairy farms in the 60’s and is now an academic in Rhode Island. The other grew up in the village during the 80’s and now lives in New York City – both had vivid and fond memories both still had connections with locals. It was my hope to observe/record any changes that may have occurred, re-engage some of my former neighbors and then provoke a conversation among my companions about their observations on our return to Burlington.

I was personally interested in finding out how the current farmers had adapted current technologies. Given that many of Waterford farms run along the Connecticut River -had any of them accepted state help to create mulching pits for their manure? In the land of ‘Take Back Vermont’ – there was always a twined attitude toward ‘innovation’ – a deep distrust along side an innate ability to adapt and recycle the old with the new to make fascinating hybrids – I wanted to know about those – I have remembered images of machinery re-tasked and reinvented in the diary parlors of my youth. I thought this could provide me tangible examples for the ‘self-reliance’, ‘ingenuity’, and the ‘ferocious independence’ spoken of in the survey.

My companions’ Vermont experience was all pre-home computer generation and they were anxious to see what impact the Internet had and if green technologies had affected the landscape.

These were our observations:

We saw no satellite dishes on any farm buildings in Waterford – granted they’ve gotten smaller – and harder to spot – we may have missed some. We did see some of their nifty ancestors- huge ‘pasture ornaments’ decomposing in place.

Of the farms we remembered only two were still functional.

Of the houses we remembered some had fallen down – abandoned – others looked tacky – unrepaired and swathed in heavy plastic surrounding the foundation – clearly the boom years in real estate had not touched the family farm here. One of the big ridge farms overlooking the Moore Dam – we used to joke that their cows gave the best milk because they had the best view – had sold their herd and had evolved to stable horses. They advertised riding and trail tours. One farm had been abandoned - its barns had burned to the ground.

Two of us had wonderful memories of chicks hatching under the careful supervision of ‘Ulla’ the farmer’s wife, in her kitchen oven. The house’s roof had caved in. As we were reviving pleasant memories – a white camero drove into the driveway and a young woman got out – she wasn’t

happy. She gave me a look reminiscent of Madame Defarge reviewing candidates for the guillotine and reaching into her car pulled out not her knitting – thank the Gods – but her cell phone (amazing really, because I kept testing the ‘bars’ of my own Verizon issue with no success). She reminded me instantly of the locals we used to see once a year at the Lyndonville fair – distrustful of all and ferociously protective. She moved toward us with a hostile air so I hastened to reassure her relying on the strategies learned at the natal hearth – identify which farm you come from and which farmers know and can vouch for you – thus immediately identifying you as a local. But of course we couldn’t do that. The farmers we knew had passed on. Our farm had been sold to flat-landers. I probably gave her names and places long since dead to her world. She crossed her arms and planted her feet and then just stared at us – immutable as stone and just as cold and uncommunicative. She began to call somebody so we returned hastily to our car. At that moment my life in the Champlain valley seemed light years removed on the other side of the state.

The scenario was to be repeated for much of the rest of the farm tour. Only Larry Wilson’s farm still seemed to be working. We saw no evidence in his parlor of new digital (non-human) mechanized milking or inventive adaptation -just grim determination to hang on. It seemed that the older technique of ‘growing your help’ was still in force. We looked over their hired labor and saw no obvious Latino faces. However, the pin-up girly calendars ubiquitous in the milk rooms of my companion’s youth were nowhere to be seen. Progress? Nobody seemed to be wearing LLBean work boots either – just the old mud-caked green or black rubber affairs – I didn’t have the guts to ask them if they were lined as I stood in my state–of-the-art-Merrills.

In the village we went to the post office and the library – the only town buildings. We were astonished to see a computer in the library where a wonderful old Victorian couch used to be.

The card catalogue was gone and the dark ‘stacks’ had given way to a cheerful children’s room. Since the library does dual service as the town hall, we saw the minutes of the last ‘Waterford Development Meeting’. It lasted a total of 15 minutes and had exactly one item on the agenda.

Small town efficiency at it's best. We gave a sigh of relief at the familiar names listed as committee members. Interesting that after the wreck of our farm memories and the present bleak landscape we took refuge in a lack of change.

White Village was the same. No new houses. But the old ones looked no worse. Rabbit Hill Inn was beautifully landscaped and looked prosperous. We counted five cars in their lot on Thanksgiving weekend. We looked but saw no satellite dishes on their roofs (they used to take pride in ‘releasing’ their guests from the pressures of the media during their stay when there was only network TV and no internet . Perhaps the owners serve on the Fairpoint Communications and Verizon Wireless boards).

The town clerk was delightfully informative about the lack of change in the town. The white church only has services once a month – about the same frequency as it did when my great grandfather was their minister. But there is a new children’s story hour in the library on the weekends – and a knitting group.

There is a new gas station on route 18 toward Littleton. The town of Waterford has no website – although Rabbit Hill Inn does. Going back through Saint Johnsbury we saw one prius. All the signature industries we remember – including the natural food store - were still in town. The Fairbanks Museum and Athenaeum were closed for the holiday (so much for holiday tourists!). On route 18 just outside of Danville we stopped for gas at a Mobil station that had a blazing array of drinks including ‘Organic Peach White Tea’ – Alleluia!

THE FUTURE – We found no evidence of future trends in Waterford. It bore more of a resemblance to our past mixed with a grim grasp on the present and an immutability toward future change – The last three prosperous decades left no lasting evidence of green technologies upon the landscape - no earth homes, no solar panels, no triple glazed windows or rain gardens but a reassertion of the mix we knew as children – the next generation of trailers and modest capes or old farm houses along side abandoned farms. Those who’ve found a way to survive live next to the remnants of those who couldn’t adapt.

The Farmers Daughter gift store – a favorite destination
In our youth – we have always tracked her peek-a-boo
panties as a signal of cultural trends – In my childhood
she had pantaloons and the skirt only blew up to her knee.
It inched upward to reveal garters, and stockings in the 60’s
Then blew straight up to glimpse tiny panties in the early 70’s.
The 80’s brought the length down for a while and only showed
leg – now it’s almost waist high with BLUE panties – What’s up with That? Someone do a ‘social anthropological’ analysis of this – PLEASE!!!