An Insular Nation

We are outside security. Through thick glass, we watch our son hoist his backpack onto the x-ray machine and wait to be summoned by a uniformed TSA agent through the metal detector. He looks young for his eighteen years. He could pass for 14 years. In the next 23 hours, he will fly through Chicago to Tokyo’s Narita airport and will change planes there and fly on to Bangkok. He will land there at 8:15 PM their time and hopefully find his way to a cheap hotel.

 

Two years ago, we said a similar goodbye to our 14-year old daughter when she left with her teacher to beta test a possible high school student trip up the Rio Negre in Brazil. The trip began at the confluence of the Rio Negre and the Amazon Rivers in Manaos where UVM professor Jim Petersen was murdered this year. She is 16 now and leaves for Uruguay in January to live with a local family and anneal her three years of Spanish study into conversational fluency.

 

Why all this pain of letting go and waving good bye? Why not circle the wagons and live on happily in a “gated” family. How is it that half our elected leaders in Congress have no passports as was widely reported several years ago? We are a notoriously cloistered and introverted country. We have largely given up teaching our children geography and foreign languages. Many children of all classes in Europe and Asia are fluent in 2 or 3 languages, while our own children often struggle with expression in their own.

 

We have gotten two terse and happy emails from Thailand. He is making his way there and is acquiring his own stories after listening to ours for so many years. This is the hardest gift we give our children, the gift of trust and risk taking. In nature, children are abandoned to their fate and in being abandoned learn to survive. We have grown soft, often needing our children beyond their need for us. The “rebellious teen age years” may be more about our children doing for themselves what we are unable to do for them, letting them step out into the larger world and discover it for themselves. In “Like Water for Chocolate,” the aged duenna says to her young charge that “The life led in fear is the life half-lived.” We do well to teach our children about risk, but to let them develop their own fears and not lug ours around with them.

 

[We have often thought that every high school degree should include a semester abroad. The risk- averse might choose Canada or England, the risk-seeking might go to Africa or China for their 4-month home stay. Visiting a foreign country when you are young, as veterans of AFS (AFS.org ) know only too well changes one and brings a world view to a young person that enriches their development. Overseas study is not only for the well- heeled, AFS and other programs enable children of all means to experience study abroad.] (can be deleted if need be)

 

If we are to continue to as a world leader, our children must know and experience the world they are to help lead. Our bizarre political and military misadventures in the world are often dreamt up by people in power who have no experiential knowledge of the people, systems and cultures in which they are inspired to meddle. Furthermore, they are apparently unwilling to listen to the experienced diplomatic network whose job it is to go where they have not gone and know what they do not know.

 

Letting our children move out through the concentric circles that radiate outward from family, through neighborhood, community, all-state events, national youth jamborees, a year abroad, and post-graduate, pre-employment pilgrimages of self-discovery are all part of growing up and becoming citizens of the world in which we live.

 

Having said all this, we look forward to being again outside the glass and seeing that familiar, but older and wiser face coming towards us with a wave and a smile.

Bill Schubart

Twist and Shout

Breaking and entering, or “B n’ E” as Officer Hubbell called it, was one thing, but B n’ E in the white Methodist church of a small New England town was another, especially if the town was Stowe, Vermont.

 

“Technically,” Chris said defensively, “it was really just an E.” Officer Boright had to agree, there was really no break in per se. There was little reason to lock a church if the poor box was emptied nightly. There was nothing worth stealing in most small town churches, brass candlesticks, vases, worn hymnals and pamphlets about the Lord and the church’s various committees and provisions for dealing with church or spiritual upkeep. The churches value lay in the simple elegance of its postcard appearance and its role in the community as a gathering place for the celebration of religious ritual.

 

Pastor Albright never locked the minister’s entrance to the church as it adjoined the rectory and he was usually back and forth enough to keep an eye on his own house as well as the Lord’s. He did, however, begin locking it after the recent “irreligious incursion.” From the pulpit, the Sunday following, Pastor Albright described the event as “an offense against God, the good people of Stowe and the evening’s peace… an irreligious incursion.” he thundered. Some nodded seriously and others fought the urge to smile.

 

Chris, Jim and Mike were not in the pews that Sunday, nor were they at 3 AM the Thursday before. They had entered the church quietly with a flashlight and a 7-inch square envelop just before 2:30 AM, according to their easily obtained confession and Officer Boright’s hand written report that Germaine would have to type up prior to the trial.

 

“Gaining entrance” through the unlocked rectory door, they avoided the nave altogether. It “made us feel uncomfortable,” Chris later confessed. They went through the basement to the stairs that led up to the base of the steeple where the electronics were for the carillon. Mike had easily cased the location that afternoon and knew exactly where to go.

 

Chris was an “audionut,” to the extent that his late teen wallet would allow and generally managed the band’s recalcitrant collection of tube amps, lamp cord and homemade plywood boxes with speakers inside that comprised their bands “PA” system. The three had formed a rock and roll band in their junior year that performed both songs they wrote and the hits of the prior decade – largely Carl Perkins, Alan Freed, Chuck Berry and Little Richard. There was little point in competing with current hit tunes as they tended to sound better by their own performers.

 

Stowe’s night-blooming après ski haunts offered a few winter venues and the three annual Stowe High School dances occasioned additional winter opportunities for assembling and performing, but summer performances were largely free in a large meadow up in Sterling Valley where a keg would be tapped and people would enjoy swimming, beer and the highland meadow of an abandoned hill farm owned by the Lapines.

 

Electronic carillons were a new and elusive luxury made possible by the advent of “Hi Fi” technology. They didn’t replace traditional carillons, as no church community or parish in Vermont could afford the luxury of real cast bells mounted in a steeple.

 

The electronic carillon was in essence a brown Webcor record changer, a GE Telechron timer, four Bell Labs mono amplifiers and four 36-inch Electrovoice PA trumpets aimed at the four compass points high in the steeple. This combination of components was legible to Chris, who, as his band’s “soundman” had grappled with worse.

 

The technology could go unattended for a 7-day cycle. Seven 45 RPM “singles” containing protestant hymns played on a real carillon were stacked on the changer Monday morning by the sexton in the order in which they were to be performed during the week and the timer did the rest.

 

At 4:50 PM, the timer turned on the system to warm up and at 5:00 PM sharp, the changer was engaged and one 45 RPM single dropped into position and played A Mighty Fortress is Our God or perhaps, Onward Christian Soldiers for the spiritual edification of the residents of Stowe as well as those on the outskirts of town leading North and South on Route 100 west up the Mountain Road to the many ski lodges and lifts on Mount Mansfield. The carillon’s reach was a source of great pride to Pastor Boright and his growing flock of Methodists who had raised the money in 1957 to install it. A large and anonymous donation, believed to be from a notable in the Mount Mansfield Company, pushed the beleaguered fund drive over the top and ensured the installation of the carillon.

 

Chris’ confession, the first of the eventual three, indicated that the three entered the church about 2:15 AM. The whole operation took a bit more time than they had expected because of the complexity of setting the tiny teeth on the GE Telechron timer. This early electro-mechanical invention combined the features of an alarm clock and a simple electric switch. To set it, however, one had to remove tiny little trigger fingers that rotated with the time and place them precisely on the diurnal arc where one wanted the switch to turn on. The hours were measured in military time so vespers was set for 16:50. This flummoxed Chris at first until Jim helped him with the math and the placement of the little fingers for 04:00.

 

Carefully they removed the neat stack of devotional hymns and replaced them with an old, scratchy copy of The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout from Mike’s collection. Chris boosted the volume potentiometers on the four Bell amps from their regular setting of four on a scale of ten, to eight. They ran the flashlight beam over the whole and, convinced that they had properly set the timer, walked discretely, but unhurriedly, back to the entrance and across the dewy lawn to Jim’s waiting ‘53 Ford.

 

From Stowe’s postcard downtown, they drove up into Stowe Hollow high above the town to enjoy their prank with the two six packs of now warm beer acquired on Mike’s new ID at the store in Morrisville that sold beer to anyone able to both walk and flash a card with type on it. They drove past the Lang Farm up towards the old dirt track road that led to the high meadow on the hill overlooking town. It was a noted trysting spot for local teens as one could see cars coming from any direction and keep an eye on the village, without being seen.

 

Mike opened three beers. The trio laughed, taking turns telling of their apprehensions during the operation. They speculated about all the things that might have gone wrong, but didn’t and how officer Boright would react when he “got the call.”

 

“My mother’s gonna know.” said Jim in a more serious tone, “She always knows.”

 

“How could she?” said Mike. “There’s 120 kids in this town could’a done it.”

 

“She just knows,” said Jim ruefully, “but she won’t turn me in….I don’t think.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

Mike held his watch up to the moonlight and squinted at the Timex dial.

 

“Quarter ‘til.”

 

They opened another round of beers and lay back on the grass to enjoy the warm summer night. There was no breeze and all town activity had long since ceased. An owl hooted far away towards the Worcester Range which loomed large in the moonlight behind them. Looking west beyond the town with its white Methodist spire, Mansfield dominated the horizon. A faint light glittered intermittently from the Octagon at the top.

 

“Time is it?”

 

“Should be startin’ now.” said Chris.

 

The three sat upright and stared at the white spire. The peace continued.

 

“We screwed up.” said Chris, “It’s a quarter after.”

 

“Maybe it’s late,” said Mike.” It was hard to see them little teeth things.”

 

“We must a’ missed somethin’” said Jim. “Let’s go home, I’m beat.”

 

“Me too,” added Mike, “I have to work tomorrow.”

 

“Probably just as well. Boright’s still pissed from the bonfire.”

 

The three got up at half past the hour and began to walk slowly down the long hill to the Ford whose blistered chrome glistened in the silvery moonlight.

 

As they approached the car and Jim was fishing for his keys, a sudden 60 cycle hum pervaded the night air, followed shortly by the very loud scratching sound of a steel needle touching down on the unrecorded opening grooves of a scratchy single. The quiet air crackled with hiss and over-amplified scratches.

 

“Crap, what did you turn that up to?” yelled Jim. His question was drowned out by the ascending bass and drum rhythm lead-in to the vocal that began, “Shake it up Baby, twist and shout.”

 

“Holy shit. That is loud,” Chris yelled as they ran back to the top of the hill to catch the action and listen.

 

“C’mon, c’mon c’mon Baby, twist and shout.” roared into the crisp night air above Stowe.

 

The first verse almost completed before the first light went on in the rectory.

 

Mike opened the rest of the beers and the three stood in awe at the sheer volume emanating from the spire.

 

Lights flickered on helter skelter in town as the steeple launched into the second verse. Mike pointed out excitedly the steady line of lights going on up and down Route 100 toward Morrisville and Waterbury respectively and west up the Mountain Road toward the unpainted A-frames, the kitchy Tyrolean alpine cottages and getaway mansions of the wealthy urban immigrants recently settled in Stowe, if only for the winter months.

 

A 45 RPM single was limited to about 2.5 minutes, especially when the song enjoyed the dynamic range of a Twist and Shout. As the final verse roared through the valley and encountered the thunderous echo of an earlier measure bouncing back off Mansfield, the glee of the three riddled with nervous fear. The fear amplified as the yellowish house lights and roving car headlights became interspersed with blue revolving lights converging on the church. The prank had now gotten the full attention of Officer Boright and “Tonto” as the kids called Deputy Hubell. Twist and Shout, however, had enjoyed a full play on the Methodist Carillon.

 

Galvanized by fear and still stunned by the terrestrial coverage of the concert, the three ran for Jim’s car. Mike suggested they drive South through the Hollow and approach Stowe from the South. That way they could spend the night at Jim’s house without passing through the thicket of cars and police gathering downtown.

 

They parked quietly behind Jim’s mother’s Plymouth and snuck quietly in through the kitchen door. The kitchen light was on and a strong smell of coffee was present. Alice padded in slowly in a bathrobe and slippers.”

 

“I know you did it.” Is all she said sitting down at the kitchen table and stirring her coffee with a spoon. “You’d better get some rest before Boright comes for the three of you.”

 

“Mom, what makes you so sure that he will know it was us?” Jim said plaintively.

 

“Who else would dream this up and who other than you, Mike, could jigger that bell ringer to do this? Think about it. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Homes to solve this case.” she said with obdurate patience.

 

The boys went down to the basement where some bunks had been installed that the family rented out to ski bums in peak season for $3 a night. They were too keyed up to sleep, however.

 

The knock came at about 7:30. There was little need for any complicated rights protocol. Carmen Miranda was still in his infancy and had yet to commit a crime. The boys were simply led away after Boright gulped down the coffee that Alice poured for him.

 

“This won’t go too hard on them, will it?” Alice inquired.

 

“Up to Judge Terrill” said Boright without fanfare. “We’ll see how this rock n’ roll stuff plays to his ear. It’s the church part that won’t play well.”

 

The car drove off with the boys.

 

As is not uncommon in small Vermont towns, the town split dead center on the issue of retribution. The buzz and chatter ran the gamut from indignant outrage to snickers and chortles. For several weeks, people were very voluble about what punishments should be meted out to the trio. Some thought the whole matter a harmless prank worthy of symbolic punishment or community service, while others were ready to haul the stocks out of the Stowe Historical Society citing blasphemy against God and the community.

 

Appropriately enough, Judge Terrill was somewhere in between and wisely sensed the need to give some degree of satisfaction to both camps. Chris, Jim and Mike got three day in jail with credit for time served for “breaking and entering” and “malicious mischief,” and 90 days worth of yard work for Pastor Albright. Satisfactory completion of this would mean no blight on their record as the three had varying aspirations of college or military service, neither of which looked kindly on a criminal record.

 

The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout went on to became a bestselling single in Stowe and the surrounding towns, as well as a hit on local jukeboxes, where it often drew applause in local watering spots and eateries.

 

Bill Schubart

Wyvis’ Fence

It all began shortly after Wyvis Bushway bought the McKean place sometime after the War when farms cost less than a used car does today. Those who knew Wyvis had no idea where the money came from, but it was gone within a month or two. Some said it was his G I Bill money gone missing, others opined that it was an inheritance from his Mother’s brother over in New Hampshire.

 

In any case, it was an ornery stretch of land, set right on Route 15 just north of Wolcott and, in the spring, the largest meadow was a boggy swale through which no one in the their right mind would consider driving a team of horses, much less a tractor. The price seemed right to Wyvis and he badly needed to begin an enterprise and generate some income to feed the brood that Peaches began to bear shortly before their wedding in Morrisville at the Puffer Methodist.

 

Not quite sure what the enterprise would be, Wyvis threw himself into several. He bought a pig, two heifers, a somewhat depleted pair of 14-year old Belgians, a ‘43 Ford, and a 1936 John Deere H narrow front-end tractor with a massive iron capstan just to the left of the cast iron driver’s seat that bore the John Deere logo. The owner, standing on the ground, spun the capstan by hand to start the cranky kerosene engine. There were no tires on the back axle, just four-foot high, cast iron wheels with opposing diagonal ridges for traction in a dry meadow or, alternatively, anchors in a meadow that was wet. It ran on kerosene which was cheap, but had to be started on gas so there were two fuel tanks beneath the faded green cowl. It had a power take off in the back with a round belt drive wheel for which Wyvis bought a rusty, but well-filed 42” steel saw blade mounted on a rugged oak saw frame with a large fiber belt to connect it to the PTO. Wyvis then went to Graves Hardware on Portland Street and unceremoniously bought one of every practical tool he could find. This last purchase depleted his reserves leaving only enough for four bottles of a home-made liquor known locally as “screech” and a large fly-specked haunch of ham. For all practical purposes, these were the last of Wyvis’ retail purchases, His credit worthiness, as yet unclear to local merchants as they did not know the extent of his cash reserves, promptly fell of the cliff.

 

Peaches was thrilled with the last two purchases and tucked into them both with delight. Often with child, she had the good sense to never drink more than a couple of glasses of screech, but then again, a couple of glasses of screech usually left her snoring on the sofa with some ham grease on her chin, which, after the birth of Godfrey, had sprouted a definite stubble.

 

Through lucky management, Wyvis’ various enterprises grew. He borrowed a neighbor’s bull, freshened “the girls” and began what was to become a small milking herd. Peaches taste for ham led to an early demise of the new pig, but the sale of one salt-cured haunch led to the purchase of two piglet sows and a bristly young boar that lived happily in a new sty created by the vertical arrangement of hardwood pallets scrounged from the ag dealer in nearby Hardwick.

 

 

From the many careers available to Wyvis, it became clear that “fixin’ and innervatin’” was to become his chosen one and, largely through barter, his enterprise grew. Many hill farmers simply did not have the cash or were behind on their credit at the “ag” dealer so they hauled their broken tractors, tedders, side rakes, disc harrows, hay lifts, plowshares, cutter bars, wagons and flatbed trucks to Wyvis who had recently learned gas welding. Having traded a rebuilt manure spreader for a set of tanks and torches that Alphonse Fournier had bought, but never seemed able to master, Wyvis now could make virtually anything work, at least for a time. Since Peaches had demolished his remaining credit capacity in town through her steady grocery and dry goods charges, acquiring factory parts could be a problem so he either fashioned them on the spot or extracted them from the various abandoned pieces of farm equipment that increasingly sprung up in the adjacent meadow. Farmers would often bring him two broken pieces of equipment and asked him to fashion from them one functional one, leaving the lesser of the two for payment and adding to Wyvis’ cache of used parts.

 

In the Fifties, farmers did not have the array of brands and annually-changing models from which to choose when they were acquiring farm equipment. The dealers in Morrisville and Hardwick carried either Deere, Ford or McCormick. Models did not change from year-to-year. Only after substantive innovation warranted a model change did new ones arrive. Respected models like the Deere H, B and M or the Ford 8N and 9N often replenished sales lots for a decade or two.

 

By the Sixties, Wyvis had a thriving business in which he steadily reinvested what Peaches and the kids didn’t consume. His own personal needs did not extend beyond three meals a day and occasionally a new blue-stripped coverall when the spilled battery acid holes in the old one became too large.

 

He had long ago converted the barn into a workshop and parts storage area. The random collection of livestock which Peaches more or less tended inhabited a lean-to Wyvis had fashioned off the side of the barn with salvaged utility poles and 4’ by 8’ sheets of tin roofing. The enlarged sty now comprised 1/4 acre and contained a noisy collection of “hams and chops” as Peaches fondly referred to her pigs. The bristle on her own chin and upper lip now rivaled that on her boar named “Flanders,” a name she had heard on WDEV out of Waterbury and had taken a shine to. When asked, she said he was a “pol’tician.”

 

Recently Wyvis had begun repairing cars as well. “The Bushway Estate” as it was known locally, rife with rusting farm equipment mostly stripped of critical parts, now became dotted with pickup trucks and cars. Wyvis’ ability to make things work a bit longer for a modest price was legion and needy customers prevailed on him from all over Lamoille County and adjoining Caledonia and Franklin Counties.

 

Transactions were simple and quite consistent beginning with a story, sometimes humorous and designed to elicit laughter and good will towards the customer or sometimes tragic and designed to elicit sympathy and a lower price. Wyvis always listened respectfully while he inspected the damage and would then announce a price suitably adjusted for the amusement or empathy he felt in hearing the story. The story teller never challenged the price although sometimes, of necessity, offered a barter arrangement to cover a lack of funds. This was almost always accepted.

 

Cars, unlike tractors, did change models annually. As always, Wyvis adapted his business to his customer’s needs and soon became the place where the less well-heeled also brought their ailing cars or trucks if they could not afford repair or replacement at the dealership where negotiation was not an option.

 

In the fields on either side of his farm house and barn cars and trucks now outnumbered tractors and farm equipment reflecting the changing economy of Lamoille County where many farms were being traded in for cash and a new job at “the IBM” in Essex, an hour long commute. Wyvis and Peaches’ eldest son, Godfrey, whom Peaches had named after her favorite radio host and crooner Arthur Godfrey, was assigned the job of salvaging and cataloguing expensive parts like starter motors, generators, carburetors, brake pistons, voltage regulators, radiators, thermostats, water pumps, batteries that would still hold a charge and the like. He was best in the family at “book learnin’” and became “parts manager” so Wyvis would not have to interrupt his repairs and go find and extract a needed part.

 

On the town deed, the Bushway estate was 15 acres “more or less” with boundaries determined by a “cedar post fence” that had long since succumbed to moisture, rotting away to mossy traces here and there along a now indeterminate line. The remains of this man-made boundary Wyvis plowed under as he needed a bit more space than the deed allowed for. The burgeoning array of junk cars, tractors and farm equipment now covered all of the “tillable” land which meant any space not covered by trees or large rocks and extended deep into René Quesnel’s property next door. René seemed to know that his estate was shrinking, but his fondness for Wyvis and the considerable debt he had ran up with him made a quibble over boundaries unlikely. Besides the Belgians, still alive had wandered over one day to René’s and never came home. René harnessed them up to haul pulp and nothing more was said about it. Both neighbors seemed comfortable with the unspoken transaction.

 

Godfrey was enlisted to compress and rationalize the random arrangement of chassis’ to allow room for more spare parts vehicles. He responded by going to Hyde Park and enlisting in the Army, leaving Wolcott for good as he never returned from the Korean Peninsula to which the US Army sent him.

 

Alice, the oldest Bushway girl, was named after Ralph Cramden’s long-suffering wife on the Honeymooners. Peaches first saw her daughter’s namesake on her sister Louise’s used Admiral TV set acquired from Henry Fogg in Morrisville. Henry kept the early TV models running for folks in Morrisville so those who were so inclined could squint and watch the one clear channel coming off Mount Mansfield or try to tune in the two “snowy” ones from Plattsburgh and Mount Washington.

 

The large black box with a greenish screen on one side was coveted and often visited by Peaches. She pointed out to Wyvis that it also had the added advantage of noticeably heating the room in which it sat. Wyvis was unimpressed with the novelty, but soon succumbed to Peaches wishes.

 

Alice followed firmly in her mother’s footsteps, becoming a sturdy and regular consumer of both perishables and dry goods. The twins, as yet too young to function profitably in the family enterprise, enjoyed playing hide and seek and “doctor” with the neighbor girls in among the various vehicle chassis.

 

Times were changing in Vermont in the early sixties. Locals in Stowe were selling out to skiers from down country for what then seemed like a windfall. The proceeds of those early sales would not cover a year’s property tax today. Hippies clutching their Whole Earth Catalogs were discovering in the wilds of Vermont what Thoreau discovered at Walden Pond in Massachusetts, at least until snow fell.

 

Vermont’s “citizen” legislature, convened each winter in Montpelier. It was comprised almost entirely of farmers who had less to do in winter and tradesmen successful enough to leave their businesses for the few months needed to review and pass agreed upon legislation. About this time, more well-heeled folks from down country wanting an influence in their new home state began arriving in the legislature. The tenor and text of legislative debate began to shift from the traditional issues of agriculture, commerce and caring for those in need to new issues in which agricultural trade and commerce would come into conflict with a new vision of Vermont as an idyllic place to live or retire and enjoy the scenery, a vision captured gracefully in Ralph Nading Hill’s Vermont Life magazine.

 

The impact was not felt as immediately in towns like Morrisville, Wolcott and Hardwick as it was in the towns to which the down country folk flocked like Stowe, Woodstock, Dorset and Craftsbury. To locals, Wyvis’ sprawling meadow of parts cars was a practical and comforting sight, ensuring their ability to keep cars running well beyond their engineered lifetimes. To Eric von Stroheim and Greta Garbo who would have had occasion to drive past the Bushway Estate in their grand James Young Rolls Royce touring car on their way to Garbo’s hideaway on nearby Caspian Lake, the distraction of munching a caviar sandwich or soothing the two large Russian Wolfhounds traveling with them in the back seat probably would cause them to miss altogether the Bushway Estate, others, however, did not.

 

As more time passed, the values of the indigenous folks and the newcomers came into increasing conflict, a conflict managed ably by then Governor Dean Davis whose mordant sense of humor and considerable diplomatic skills gave birth to Act 250 which durably enshrined values more or less acceptable to both camps. It was, however, an uneasy truce.

 

There were two pieces of legislation inching their way through the now hybrid legislature that directly affected the life and livelihood of Wyvis Bushway. One was a new law that essentially made the driving of unsightly vehicles illegal. The “New Vehicle Inspection Standards” law addressed, among other things like brake wear and windshield cracks, the degree of visible body rot a car could have and still be legally roadworthy. The new unit of measure was “a hole the size of a dime.” This created considerable hardship for folks financially unable to trade in their car every other model year. They would have much preferred a dinner plate to a dime as the new standard of measurement.

 

Car bodies in those days were not galvanized before the finish coat of paint was sprayed on and salt was applied as liberally to Vermont roads in winter as it was to a corned beef hash supper on a Saturday night. One legendary model year of Rambler American began rusting entirely through its paltry metal body work within 20 months of leaving its warm show room on the Morrisville-Stowe Road. So sheet metal body work and the troweling on of “bondo” became a burgeoning business as legal application of the “dime standard” came under enforcement.

 

The other law was considerably more ominous and, unbeknownst to Wyvis, was making remarkable progress through the increasingly down-country legislature. In effect, the law applied the Vermont Life standard to certain views, specifically views in which junk cars played a foreground role. Debate raged on both sides of the issue, but the bill that emerged was indeed a compromise, but one thought to favor considerably the arrivistes.

 

As it emerged in the law books, it required either merchants or homeowners with more than five junk cars in their yard to erect a six-foot opaque fence around them. To many Vermonters a yard full of “parts cars” was a practical indicator, not an eyesore. The sight, however, was inconsistent with the rural farm views portrayed in Vermont Life. Vehicles portrayed therein were either one or two tractors working in a field, a well kept pick up or traditional horse-drawn implements that looked suspiciously as if they were borrowed from the Shelburne Museum.

 

Apart from the conflict in scenic values, the new law, for many, breached the tradition of being left alone on one’s own property. Local law enforcement officers puzzled as to how they would impose the restriction on their neighbors or friends who relied on “multiple parts cars” to keep one running. Wyvis chose to remain ignorant of the new law. Although the radio was always on in the shop, he never listened to the words, only to the music. His favorites were by Don Fields and the Pony Boys.

 

Peaches, however, was alert to the law. She had a habit of accompanying her substantial meals, libations and snacks with media, either the bakelite Zenith radio blaring WDEV in the kitchen, a recent edition of Morrisville’s News and Citizen or the green glowing Emerson TV that stayed on throughout the day and some of the night in the living room across from the sagging, grease-stained couch, and, more often, all three.

 

She tried to warn Wyvis of the law and what it would mean to their enterprise.

 

“How ya gonna fence up a medder of junkers that covers close ta 18 echers?” she said, the question made more plaintive by a gulp of wine to which Peaches had recently taken a liking. “Even the spruce stockade fencin’ ‘s spensive and acquires a reglar splashin’ a creesote or it’ll rot away faster ‘n Reba Batty’s teeth or Madge Kimbell’s new Rambler.”
 she added earnestly.

 

 Wyvis ignored the comment and the issue in general, focusing instead on the work at hand, in this case a rusty pale blue ‘54 Ford station wagon that needed a fan belt, new gas tank and water pump.        

 

The day of reckoning came rather leisurely. The Bushway Estate was a comfortable fixture to those who either lived in or passed regularly through Wolcott and locals were hard-pressed to imagine it disappearing behind a six-foot fence. The legislation became law despite appeals and the sporadic, disorganized protests of many locals. Those directly affected by its passage did little in response other than to wait, curious to see what form enforcement might take.  Even now, almost a half-century later, there are rustic dwellings with more than five parts cars in the front yard and no six-foot opaque fence to hide them from the sensitive eyes of visitors.

 

After little more than fourteen months with the new law on the books, word came from Montpelier that any imagined grace period was over and that town road budgets might be held hostage to proper local enforcement of the new statute.

 

“Easy for Montpelier to say…” huffed René Dumas — pronounced “Rainy Doomus” by his friends — one of the Wolcott Town selectmen, “They don’t live here. Let them come over and wrangle with Wyvis. He might knock some sense into their pointy heads.”

 

“Take it easy.” soothed Jerry Kitonis. “Wyvis is one of us. Most likely he’ll understand. We could help him build the fence.”

 

“Je me’n doute,” responded René, lapsing into his native tongue.

 

Fred Westphal, a State Senator from neighboring Elmore, happened to be visiting the Town Select Board meeting that night in Wolcott. He lived on the road between Wolcott and Elmore and often attended meetings in both towns.

 

“I fought this bullshit law tooth and nail,” allowed Fred, but my horse’s ass colleagues rammed it through any way.” Fred was noted for his direct language, both among friends, behind the counter in the basement of Gillen’s Department Store in Morrisville where he sold shoes and classical LP’s, and in the halls of the capital building with his legislative colleagues.

 

“Yes, but what do we do about it now?” reasoned Lyle Demars, Chair of the Select Board.

 

“I’ll talk with Wyvis. He’ll cooperate,” volunteered Jerry Kitonis. “Wyvis and I go back to grammar school together.”

 

“You do that,” muttered Fred Westphal as he jammed his hat on his head and headed home to Elmore.

 

The discussion between Jerry and Wyvis meandered all over until Wyvis signaled his need to get back under Grace Tyndall’s Dodge. The topic of the fencing in the lot never managed to came up.

 

The Select Board decided as a whole to pay a visit to Wyvis and broach the dicey issue of Wyvis’ and Peaches’ place in the scenic panorama of Wolcott. The discussion was friendly. Heads all round nodded in earnest assent, but nothing happened in the ensuing weeks to indicate construction of any kind other than Peaches expansion of the sty with more pallets.

 

Summer was advancing. Gravel road regrading, roadside mowing, culvert replacement, tree limb removal, all the locally financed routine road maintenance was progressing apace. The single lane bridge, however, to West Craftsbury, scheduled for replacement in spring and the repaving of a long sectionss of Rte. 15 had not yet begun.

 

The State intervened. Wyvis was served with a “notice to comply” or face prosecution. Nothing happened. Wyvis was served again with a summons. Nothing happened.

 

Fred Westphal paid Wyvis a visit, but still nothing happened until several days later when a back hoe pulled up to the Bushway’s and began to dig a massive trench around the front facing perimeter of the property. Folks in Wolcott, relieved that any standoff had been avoided and that apparent construction of the fence had indeed begun, went about their business. Two weeks later a truck-mounted crusher showed up to crush the parts-depleted hulks and haul them off for sale to a steel yard in Barre. This would reduce the perimeter of fencing required and the consequent cost, so assumed the curious locals following the drama closely.

 

Folks in Wolcott awoke to their great surprise on Thursday morning to a fully completed six to eight foot high opaque fence around the Bushway Estate. The work had clearly been done during the night. Wednesday evening the portable crusher had still been doing its noisy work and the backhoe was sitting idle having finished the trench for the vertical posts.

 

Word spread quickly of Wyvis’ new fence and people drove from surrounding towns to see the new fence that all agreed conformed precisely to the letter of the law.

 

During the night, Wyvis, the backhoe operator and another unknown helper had used the backhoe and a large tractor with a bucket to arrange and level the crushed vehicles vertically in the trench, neatly placing them side by side with their flattened chrome radiator grills aimed skyward and their flattened trunks buried in the backfilled trench. Their rumpled roofs faced outwards toward the street and their undercarriages and drive trains faced inward towards the house and barn. The fence did not fully surround the now smaller meadow of car bodies, but fully blocked their view from the road as was required by law. Morning found Wyvis in his shop tearing apart a Massey-Ferguson the hydraulics of which had failed.

 

A burgeoning number of cars were now parked and double-parked outside the new fence snaking several hundred feet to the north and south along Rte. 15 on which two lanes of traffic slowed to a crawl as passengers and drivers alike rubber-necked the glistening oddity. The bottleneck would eventually require traffic control, of which there was none in Wolcott.

 

Word spread of Wyvis’ fence well beyond Lamoille County. City folks, news gatherers, picture snappers and the curious came from miles around to see for themselves how Wyvis had managed to conform to the letter of the newcomer’s law while maintaining the Vermont tradition of practical utility and function.

 

Bill Schubart

Twist and Shout

Breaking and entering, or “B n’ E” as Officer Hubbell called it, was one thing, but B n’ E in the white Methodist church of a small New England town was another, especially if the town was Stowe, Vermont.

 

“Technically,” Chris said defensively, “it was really just an E.” Officer Boright had to agree, there was really no break in per se. There was little reason to lock a church if the poor box was emptied nightly. There was nothing worth stealing in most small town churches, brass candlesticks, vases, worn hymnals and pamphlets about the Lord and the church’s various committees and provisions for dealing with church or spiritual upkeep. The churches value lay in the simple elegance of its postcard appearance and its role in the community as a gathering place for the celebration of religious ritual.

 

Pastor Albright never locked the minister’s entrance to the church as it adjoined the rectory and he was usually back and forth enough to keep an eye on his own house as well as the Lord’s. He did, however, begin locking it after the recent “irreligious incursion.” From the pulpit, the Sunday following, Pastor Albright described the event as “an offense against God, the good people of Stowe and the evening’s peace… an irreligious incursion.” he thundered. Some nodded seriously and others fought the urge to smile.

 

Chris, Jim and Mike were not in the pews that Sunday, nor were they at 3 AM the Thursday before. They had entered the church quietly with a flashlight and a 7-inch square envelop just before 2:30 AM, according to their easily obtained confession and Officer Boright’s hand written report that Germaine would have to type up prior to the trial.

 

“Gaining entrance” through the unlocked rectory door, they avoided the nave altogether. It “made us feel uncomfortable,” Chris later confessed. They went through the basement to the stairs that led up to the base of the steeple where the electronics were for the carillon. Mike had easily cased the location that afternoon and knew exactly where to go.

 

Chris was an “audionut,” to the extent that his late teen wallet would allow and generally managed the band’s recalcitrant collection of tube amps, lamp cord and homemade plywood boxes with speakers inside that comprised their bands “PA” system. The three had formed a rock and roll band in their junior year that performed both songs they wrote and the hits of the prior decade – largely Carl Perkins, Alan Freed, Chuck Berry and Little Richard. There was little point in competing with current hit tunes as they tended to sound better by their own performers.

 

Stowe’s night-blooming après ski haunts offered a few winter venues and the three annual Stowe High School dances occasioned additional winter opportunities for assembling and performing, but summer performances were largely free in a large meadow up in Sterling Valley where a keg would be tapped and people would enjoy swimming, beer and the highland meadow of an abandoned hill farm owned by the Lapines.

 

Electronic carillons were a new and elusive luxury made possible by the advent of “Hi Fi” technology. They didn’t replace traditional carillons, as no church community or parish in Vermont could afford the luxury of real cast bells mounted in a steeple.

 

The electronic carillon was in essence a brown Webcor record changer, a GE Telechron timer, four Bell Labs mono amplifiers and four 36-inch Electrovoice PA trumpets aimed at the four compass points high in the steeple. This combination of components was legible to Chris, who, as his band’s “soundman” had grappled with worse.

 

The technology could go unattended for a 7-day cycle. Seven 45 RPM “singles” containing protestant hymns played on a real carillon were stacked on the changer Monday morning by the sexton in the order in which they were to be performed during the week and the timer did the rest.

 

At 4:50 PM, the timer turned on the system to warm up and at 5:00 PM sharp, the changer was engaged and one 45 RPM single dropped into position and played A Mighty Fortress is Our God or perhaps, Onward Christian Soldiers for the spiritual edification of the residents of Stowe as well as those on the outskirts of town leading North and South on Route 100 west up the Mountain Road to the many ski lodges and lifts on Mount Mansfield. The carillon’s reach was a source of great pride to Pastor Boright and his growing flock of Methodists who had raised the money in 1957 to install it. A large and anonymous donation, believed to be from a notable in the Mount Mansfield Company, pushed the beleaguered fund drive over the top and ensured the installation of the carillon.

 

Chris’ confession, the first of the eventual three, indicated that the three entered the church about 2:15 AM. The whole operation took a bit more time than they had expected because of the complexity of setting the tiny teeth on the GE Telechron timer. This early electro-mechanical invention combined the features of an alarm clock and a simple electric switch. To set it, however, one had to remove tiny little trigger fingers that rotated with the time and place them precisely on the diurnal arc where one wanted the switch to turn on. The hours were measured in military time so vespers was set for 16:50. This flummoxed Chris at first until Jim helped him with the math and the placement of the little fingers for 04:00.

 

Carefully they removed the neat stack of devotional hymns and replaced them with an old, scratchy copy of The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout from Mike’s collection. Chris boosted the volume potentiometers on the four Bell amps from their regular setting of four on a scale of ten, to eight. They ran the flashlight beam over the whole and, convinced that they had properly set the timer, walked discretely, but unhurriedly, back to the entrance and across the dewy lawn to Jim’s waiting ‘53 Ford.

 

From Stowe’s postcard downtown, they drove up into Stowe Hollow high above the town to enjoy their prank with the two six packs of now warm beer acquired on Mike’s new ID at the store in Morrisville that sold beer to anyone able to both walk and flash a card with type on it. They drove past the Lang Farm up towards the old dirt track road that led to the high meadow on the hill overlooking town. It was a noted trysting spot for local teens as one could see cars coming from any direction and keep an eye on the village, without being seen.

 

Mike opened three beers. The trio laughed, taking turns telling of their apprehensions during the operation. They speculated about all the things that might have gone wrong, but didn’t and how officer Boright would react when he “got the call.”

 

“My mother’s gonna know.” said Jim in a more serious tone, “She always knows.”

 

“How could she?” said Mike. “There’s 120 kids in this town could’a done it.”

 

“She just knows,” said Jim ruefully, “but she won’t turn me in….I don’t think.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

Mike held his watch up to the moonlight and squinted at the Timex dial.

 

“Quarter ‘til.”

 

They opened another round of beers and lay back on the grass to enjoy the warm summer night. There was no breeze and all town activity had long since ceased. An owl hooted far away towards the Worcester Range which loomed large in the moonlight behind them. Looking west beyond the town with its white Methodist spire, Mansfield dominated the horizon. A faint light glittered intermittently from the Octagon at the top.

 

“Time is it?”

 

“Should be startin’ now.” said Chris.

 

The three sat upright and stared at the white spire. The peace continued.

 

“We screwed up.” said Chris, “It’s a quarter after.”

 

“Maybe it’s late,” said Mike.” It was hard to see them little teeth things.”

 

“We must a’ missed somethin’” said Jim. “Let’s go home, I’m beat.”

 

“Me too,” added Mike, “I have to work tomorrow.”

 

“Probably just as well. Boright’s still pissed from the bonfire.”

 

The three got up at half past the hour and began to walk slowly down the long hill to the Ford whose blistered chrome glistened in the silvery moonlight.

 

As they approached the car and Jim was fishing for his keys, a sudden 60 cycle hum pervaded the night air, followed shortly by the very loud scratching sound of a steel needle touching down on the unrecorded opening grooves of a scratchy single. The quiet air crackled with hiss and over-amplified scratches.

 

“Crap, what did you turn that up to?” yelled Jim. His question was drowned out by the ascending bass and drum rhythm lead-in to the vocal that began, “Shake it up Baby, twist and shout.”

 

“Holy shit. That is loud,” Chris yelled as they ran back to the top of the hill to catch the action and listen.

 

“C’mon, c’mon c’mon Baby, twist and shout.” roared into the crisp night air above Stowe.

 

The first verse almost completed before the first light went on in the rectory.

 

Mike opened the rest of the beers and the three stood in awe at the sheer volume emanating from the spire.

 

Lights flickered on helter skelter in town as the steeple launched into the second verse. Mike pointed out excitedly the steady line of lights going on up and down Route 100 toward Morrisville and Waterbury respectively and west up the Mountain Road toward the unpainted A-frames, the kitchy Tyrolean alpine cottages and getaway mansions of the wealthy urban immigrants recently settled in Stowe, if only for the winter months.

 

A 45 RPM single was limited to about 2.5 minutes, especially when the song enjoyed the dynamic range of a Twist and Shout. As the final verse roared through the valley and encountered the thunderous echo of an earlier measure bouncing back off Mansfield, the glee of the three riddled with nervous fear. The fear amplified as the yellowish house lights and roving car headlights became interspersed with blue revolving lights converging on the church. The prank had now gotten the full attention of Officer Boright and “Tonto” as the kids called Deputy Hubell. Twist and Shout, however, had enjoyed a full play on the Methodist Carillon.

 

Galvanized by fear and still stunned by the terrestrial coverage of the concert, the three ran for Jim’s car. Mike suggested they drive South through the Hollow and approach Stowe from the South. That way they could spend the night at Jim’s house without passing through the thicket of cars and police gathering downtown.

 

They parked quietly behind Jim’s mother’s Plymouth and snuck quietly in through the kitchen door. The kitchen light was on and a strong smell of coffee was present. Alice padded in slowly in a bathrobe and slippers.”

 

“I know you did it.” Is all she said sitting down at the kitchen table and stirring her coffee with a spoon. “You’d better get some rest before Boright comes for the three of you.”

 

“Mom, what makes you so sure that he will know it was us?” Jim said plaintively.

 

“Who else would dream this up and who other than you, Mike, could jigger that bell ringer to do this? Think about it. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Homes to solve this case.” she said with obdurate patience.

 

The boys went down to the basement where some bunks had been installed that the family rented out to ski bums in peak season for $3 a night. They were too keyed up to sleep, however.

 

The knock came at about 7:30. There was little need for any complicated rights protocol. Carmen Miranda was still in his infancy and had yet to commit a crime. The boys were simply led away after Boright gulped down the coffee that Alice poured for him.

 

“This won’t go too hard on them, will it?” Alice inquired.

 

“Up to Judge Terrill” said Boright without fanfare. “We’ll see how this rock n’ roll stuff plays to his ear. It’s the church part that won’t play well.”

 

The car drove off with the boys.

 

As is not uncommon in small Vermont towns, the town split dead center on the issue of retribution. The buzz and chatter ran the gamut from indignant outrage to snickers and chortles. For several weeks, people were very voluble about what punishments should be meted out to the trio. Some thought the whole matter a harmless prank worthy of symbolic punishment or community service, while others were ready to haul the stocks out of the Stowe Historical Society citing blasphemy against God and the community. 

 

Appropriately enough, Judge Terrill was somewhere in between and wisely sensed the need to give some degree of satisfaction to both camps. Chris, Jim and Mike got three day in jail with credit for time served for “breaking and entering” and “malicious mischief,” and 90 days worth of yard work for Pastor Albright. Satisfactory completion of this would mean no blight on their record as the three had varying aspirations of college or military service, neither of which looked kindly on a criminal record.

 

The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout went on to became a bestselling single in Stowe and the surrounding towns, as well as a hit on local jukeboxes, where it often drew applause in local watering spots and eateries.

 

Bill Schubart

Mr. Skiff’s VW

 

In 1952, Morrisville’s closest contact with the outside world was its neighbor Stowe, where tony people had begun to settle to enjoy the Nosedive, the National, the Perry Merrill and the trails hanging off the single chairlift. While Stowe was a smorgasbord of Austrians, Norwegians and New Yorkers, Morrisville was a pale casserole of Catholics from French Canada and Protestants who thought they were there before trees.

 

Morrisville peopled the Mountain Company’s trail-grooming snowshoe crews, liftline maintenance shifts and hospitality services. It was also where the ambulances raced nervous flatlanders to have their broken bones set by Doctors French, Calcagni or Goddard in the wood frame Copley Hospital. Orthopedics was a growth industry in Morrisville in the Fifties. Depression, known then as melancholia, had not even achieved disease status.

 

In faraway Manhattan, the emerging multinational Union Carbide and Carborundum Corporation, lashed by the fear of a nuclear attack on Manhattan, had just completed a study to find the two least likely places in the US where such an attack might occur. The winners were Morrisville, Vermont and some nameless erg in the Arizona desert. Morrisville was no doubt selected because of its proximity to Stowe’s more urbane hospitality offerings and to the Montrealer that steamed its way north daily from Grand Central Station.

 

Morrisville had yet to hear of, much less form, such a thing as a Regional Development Authority, so it did little more than react with curiosity as the cinderblocks gradually took the shape of Union Carbide’s huge bombproof vital records storage center.

 

Natives would, of course, be offered jobs, but it was understood that it would require the mental horsepower of a New Yorker to actually manage the place, so, perhaps because he had done something terribly wrong, a Mr. Skiff was chosen from the legions of Union Carbide employees in New York to manage the new bombproof facility in Morrisville. Father MacDonough’s house was acquired from the Holy Family Catholic church at New York prices and given to Mr. Skiff and his wife as a residence. It sat right next to the new building and sported a matching woodframe one-car garage. The first four local employees were Charlie Bailey, Emile Couture, Stan Fitts and Max Trepanier.

 

Their jobs were all variants of receiving and putting away files in boxes on shelves and remembering where they were. Max was the handyman/janitor. He immediately plowed up half the newly acquired building lot and planted the largest asparagus bed in Lamoille County. This required liberal, frequent and heady applications of manure. Mr. Skiff forbore this use of corporate assets for the time being in deference to Max’s ability to repair virtually anything, including Morrisville’s first copier.

 

This novelty cost $3600, the price of a home or a fleet of cars in those days, and was the size of a chest freezer. It had dozens of light bulbs and took eight minutes to produce one copy, a sort of daguerreotype printed on cardboard. Each copy cost $3.00 to produce. It was the envy of every business in town that relied on mimeograph machines to reproduce copies that faded into oblivion often before they were read.

 

Mr. Skiff approached his punishment with great good humor and natives took a cautious liking to this puckish executive from down country. His city ways were a source of endless discussion in Patch’s market, Peck’s Pharmacy and Graves’ hardware.

 

Nothing, however, generated more rural chatter than his purchase from somewhere in Connecticut of a brand new, black 1954 Volkswagen reputed to cost about $650. The car was designed by Hitler himself according to Peavine, Morrisville’s sole cabby. The only available color was black. The price, had it not been reported in the Saturday Evening Post, would have been discretely withheld by Mr. Skiff. After all, farms were still selling for $5,000. Though gas, at 11 cents a gallon, was hardly an issue, the VW claimed to go very far on very few gallons of it. There was not yet an EPA to authenticate VW’s claims, but MPG meant little to Morrisville citizens, for whom gas mileage ratings were as alien as ski wax formulas. 

 

The black bug, however, fascinated the town the day it appeared, no one more so than Max Trepanier, a man with a strong affinity for internal combustion, external combustion (dynamite), fruited brandies and moving objects. Max was the adopted son of Clovis and Elise Couture and the informal stepbrother of his Union Carbide colleague Emile Couture.

 

Whenever he got the chance, Max circled the odd looking vehicle with its flat windshield, its gas tank in the front trunk where the motor should be and its curious little air-cooled, four-cylinder engine where the trunk should be. There was no dashboard other than a speedometer/odometer and an ashtray. When you ran out of gas, you flipped a lever on the floor and the gallon of gas held in the reserve tank got you to a gas station.

 

“Those krauts,” Max would mutter in a Quebecois accent. He was endlessly drawn to the curious car, like many in the town, when Mr. Skiff parked on Portland Street to run an errand. The association with Hitler’s Third Reich and the still painful experience of World War II kept a few in town at bay and intriguing quietly between lace curtains, while others stood on the sidewalk gawking.

 

Mr. Skiff took it all in stride and was quite proud of his car’s status among the natives. He spoke politely with the curious, confessing his complete lack of understanding of things mechanical, but professing a deep affection for the appearance and fuel economy of his choice. He quoted to all who would listen the extraordinary mileage figures cited for the car. This meant nothing to his listeners, except for Max, whom it annoyed.

 

Within the first few days of the car’s arrival in Morrisville and a lengthy presentation to his workers by Mr. Skiff on the VW’s design provenance and fuel economy, Max was seized with a notion that he shared only with Emile and Charlie. A decision was taken to pool some funds so as to ensure that the gas mileage rating claimed by Mr. Skiff was exceeded. Max secured a five-gallon, black gas can and job assignments were allotted. The proximity of the garage to the office was helpful. The proximity to the house was of concern.

 

That first evening Max, the ringleader, snuck into the garage under cover of darkness and refilled the gaugeless gas tank without incident. Several days later, a much less comfortable Emile repeated the procedure and this simple process of reverse larceny repeated itself every few days into October.

 

It was several weeks before Mr. Skiff noted publicly that the vehicle he had bought had yet to use up its first ten gallons of gas in spite of the fact that he had put over 600 miles on the odometer. People outside the conspiracy began to take some notice. Mr. Skiff was proud but not cocky.

 

As November approached and the odometer crept up to 1000 miles, Mr. Skiff became even more enthralled with his new car. He touted the heady figure of over 100 miles to the gallon, a rating that exceeded substantially the claims of the manufacturer. This he declaimed to all as he went about his errands. 

 

Renewed interest developed in the “krautmobile,” as some called it. Those for whom gas mileage meant little began to prick up their ears as Mr. Skiff, once an enthusiast, now an evangelist, carried on about his car’s fuel economy. People even began to ask where exactly he had bought it, as there were as yet no dealers in Vermont.

 

The midnight refueling raids continued without being noticed and the mileage continued to rise. In early December, the odometer turned 2000 miles and even those who had quit Peoples Academy in fifth grade could do the math. They were impressed.

 

Saturdays would find Mr. Skiff parked in front of the Morrisville Water and Light Department earnestly reporting to Willard Saunders, the Morrisville Water and Light Commissioner and an engineer by trade, the miraculous Bug’s fuel efficiency. Skeptical of the flatlander’s encomium, Willard checked in with Ron Terrill at the Texaco and Armand Crevier at the Esso to determine if Mr. Skiff had been a customer yet. The answers were negative. The nearest other sources of gas would have been Stowe or Hardwick. Willard could not imagine Mr. Skiff venturing to Hardwick, a rough and tumble town in those days, and, although a simple man in spite of his New York City roots, Mr. Skiff professed a dislike for the folly and pretense of Stowe. No one was selling him gas.

 

The now widely discussed mileage rating kept creeping up. Mr. Skiff astonished the patrons of Patch’s market one morning as he told them that his own skepticism had led him to drop a weighted cotton string into the gas tank to assess how much fuel remained, finding at least half a tank left.

 

In early January, Mr. Skiff wrote the newly formed Volkswagen Corporation of America in Paramus, New Jersey, offering to bear witness in their advertising to the extraordinary mileage of their car, which at this point he calculated was between 350 and 400 miles to the gallon, depending on how one read the wet string. He did not receive a response.

 

Morrisville had ensured its good name among Lamoille Country communities by voting each year to maintain its “dry” status. Thus Peavine, known only by his mother and the Department of Motor Vehicles as Alton, made weekly taxi runs to the “State Store” in Waterbury for the dry citizens of Morrisville drawn to alcoholic stimulants. Max’s passion for down-market, fruit-flavored brandies occasionally led to epic, bi-lingual ravings on Portland Street on whatever topic was most on his mind. As a janitor, these topics might be the absurdity of using sweeping compound, the stupidity of changing rather than simply replenishing oil in a car, the use of dynamite in removing beaver colonies or in perch fishing, or the lactation equipment of one of the sisters who ran Mer-Lu’s restaurant in Hardwick, noted by non-locals for its complete lack of a food menu or even a kitchen.    

 

Max doggedly maintained the refueling deceit, though Emile and Charlie had dropped out, fearing for their job security. But his consumption of a generic blackberry brandy, or, on occasion, grain alcohol mixed with a Nehi, made the deceit virtually impossible to conceal, however, as the alcohol gave Max’s mouth greater and greater sway over his judgment. On one epic Saturday afternoon in the back room of Graves’ Hardware, Max loosed his secret to a thrilled audience of loggers gathered to admire a new Evinrude chainsaw. 

 

Soon the whole town was privy to the prank, all but Mr. Skiff, who was still blissfully ignorant and enamored. Like Toad in The Wind in the Willows, Mr. Skiff never tired of sharing his calculations with anyone who would listen. His persistent calls to Volkswagen continued to elicit silence and may have delayed the opening of a dealership in Vermont. 

 

As the first signs of spring approached, Mr. Skiff was obsessed with the marvel of his perpetual motion machine. On March 25^th as Morrisville’s French Catholics were celebrating the Annunciation, the mileage reached 500 miles to the gallon, a figure even Mr. Skiff had trouble embracing, but did.

 

His updates now elicited worried smiles. Emile had confessed his complicity in the prank to Father MacDonough, whose good Irish humor led to the imposition of only a few Hail Mary’s as penance. He was still, however, haunted by the thought that his promising career with Union Carbide might be threatened by the prank. He approached Max about ending the deceit.

 

Max would have none of it. So Emile and Charlie snuck into the garage late on a Sunday night and siphoned off all of the gas, leaving only vapors and the reserve gallon.

 

The next morning Mr. Skiff reported sadly that his car had finally used up its fuel. He calculated and recalculated his final mileage to report it both to the manufacturer and to the Guinness Book of Records at 618 miles to the gallon. He told Emile and Stan that he would go to the Texaco at lunch and refuel his car for the second time in its life.

 

Word spread rapidly. At noon, the Atlas Plywood factory whistle blew and quite a crowd of folks gathered to witness the event. Mr. Skiff, running on his reserves, pulled up to loud applause. Chet opened the front bonnet, unscrewed the cap and refueled the small tank. Mr. Skiff got out, acknowledged the crowd, tendered Chet $2.00 – from which he got change – and left.

 

The hoax ended after several more refuelings, which came within weeks rather than months, Emile, Max, Charlie and the innocent Stan each got handwritten notes from Mr. Skiff which read “Thanks for all the gas and the good fun. You sure had me going.”

 Bill Schubart

Technology and Silence

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Dialer

 
Why can’t we communicate? Too much communication.

 
How do you feel while talking with someone who’s reading emails?

 

We’re in the Metropolitan Opera to hear Renée Fleming in La Traviata. As the lights dim and the crystal chandeliers are drawn up on their four-story cables towards the vaulted ceiling above the orchestra, I look over the balcony. A dozen or so Blackberries glow in the orchestra, their readers catching one last email before the curtain rises and they must suffer the pain of withdrawal that will follow when they turn off the devices, as the house manager has requested. When they do, the blue digital blither of the Blackberries — or “crackberries,” as detractors call them — is replaced by the red digital translation titles built into every seat.

Switch now to a business conference room in South Burlington. A dozen smart people sit around a large, hardwood conference table that cost more than most cars. A discreet black microphone is inlaid in the maple table surface in front of each seat at the table. A motorized camera follows the voice of each person at the table and captures the image for a table full of people at a similar table in Stamford, Connecticut. The discussion that ensues, about the fall media sales projections for a major cable TV programmer, is seemingly earnest, yet oddly distracted. How come?

Resting on the table in front of each participant is a blue Blackberry or a silver Treo. Eyes dart back and forth between the large screen at the head of the table, on which the speaker is presenting the fall programming projections, and the small PDA screens sitting on the table. Every now and then someone slyly picks up a device and slips it into his or her lap below the table’s edge. Both hands soon follow, and then the eyes, as thumbs generate an email response. Meanwhile, the person presenting goes on talking and taking questions, the answers to which have already been made clear earlier in the presentation.

The tradition of maintaining eye contact and focus during discourse is history. How do you feel while talking with someone who’s reading emails?

The question goes to the very root of human communication. Can one interact with another human being meaningfully while doing something else? Is it communication when Mom carries on a monologue about Junior’s problem at school while Dad reads the sports page and offers a litany of “uh-huhs?”

Sometimes human dialogue is urgent and mission-critical. Sometimes it’s simply an articulation of emotion or feeling. Real love, whether the love of a spouse, partner, child or friend, always deserves rapt attention. When does the obsession to receive emails, phone calls, pages all the time, in real time, become an evasion of life itself? Would you answer your cellphone while making love — coitus interruptus Nokia?

There is a lonely and narcissistic element to all this connectedness. It says, “People need to talk to me. Look at my devices. I am needed.”

In the early days of cellphones, before any etiquette was imposed, private conversations became public by virtue of proximity. My own favorite and familiar cellphone monologue was, “. . . I am boarding now, yeah, I have an aisle seat, 7C, just a minute while I stow my luggage, yeah, I am buckling in. Hope we leave on time. Oops, have to turn off cellphones.” I thought to myself, “Hey, this guy’s important, and someone equally important needed to know this.”

At around that same time, I remember riding the Metro North train out of New York to Greenwich. I overheard a number of proximate conversations, but the one being conducted by the person beside me didn’t sound normal — it lacked the rhythm and continuity of a two-way conversation. When the young woman hung up, I casually asked, “Checking in on the home front?”

She looked embarrassed, “I do that sometimes on the train,” she said. “There was really nobody there. Could you tell?”

I smiled. “Maybe a little.”

For the rest of the trip I tried to imagine the disconnectedness and loneliness that had motivated her charade. I thought of the times in my own life when I’d imagined conversations I would never have. The irony is that loneliness has a glass-half-full flip side — it’s called solitude.

Many people will tell you that the only time they can get anything creative done is at night, at either end of the diurnal cycle. Our relentless new technology and our pretense at productivity continue to make incursions on the sensual voids and silences that engender deep thought.

Human beings need silence and a place without insistent demands, a sort of hermitage, in order to think, to imagine, or even to absorb the impact of daily life. We need a place without distraction or network pursuit where we can listen intently to someone whose thoughts or affection mean something — or, even more critically, where we can plumb our own thoughts. The gifts of silence and time are getting rarer. But they’re gifts we give ourselves, and are easily afforded if we so choose.

Technology is not the enemy. The enemy is how we use it. Whether we suffer from the “Look at me” early-adopter syndrome or the “I can’t turn it off” addiction syndrome, the flaw isn’t in our technology. It’s within us.

If we are to be serious about life and love, we must make for ourselves what was the natural luxury of earlier cultures: time and space without noise or inputs. We are, after all, what we do and what we communicate. If our lives are to be something more than a series of inane text messages, we must make that quiet place and discover what we and those we love are actually thinking and feeling.

 

Bill Schubart

Head Heifer: Leadership

What should we look for when we choose a leader?

The very person in your small town who really wants to be the cop is probably the one individual you wouldn’t want in that position.

My first job, at age 12, was to let Volney Farr’s cows out to pasture before I left for school. It was well after their morning milking, which started at 4:30 a.m. After school, I’d open the pasture gate to let them in again. My only real responsibilities were to count them on their return, to ensure that all the gates were properly closed behind them, to count them again and secure them in their stanchions.

Mr. Farr explained to me that I was not their leader; “Irma” was. I should do only what I was told. Irma, a Jersey, would do the rest.

“How did Irma become the leader?” I once asked Mr. Farr.

“She just did. The other girls chose her I s’pect,” he answered, “They do that, don’cha know.”

Irma did indeed lead the “girls” out of the barn and to the pasture, where, under her watchful eye, they dispersed to browse and chew their cud. In the evening as I opened the gates, everyone followed Irma back into the barn and then went by themselves to their particular oak stanchion. Irma would nudge cows that dawdled or got distracted, and they would follow her. I carried Mr. Farr’s big oak cattleman’s stick to give myself the illusion of a role in this daily ritual.

This somewhat Orwellian bovine allegory got me thinking the other day as I sat in front of the Trinitron watching the accelerating blitz of mostly misfiring campaign ads for the upcoming primary. How do people get to be leaders? What is it in their character that makes them suitable to lead us? What made Irma the leader? She didn’t appear to seek out her head-honcho role.

Unlike cows, people do aspire to move to the head of the herd — and for many reasons, few of which derive, unfortunately, from any intrinsic leadership qualities. The very person in your small town who really wants to be the cop is probably the one individual you wouldn’t want in that position. A party press gang may commandeer a faithful lieutenant they deem electable, regardless of the person’s desire or ability to lead. Or worse, a crusader, convinced of his or her righteousness on a single cause, may rush hell-bent into the political arena seeking a key role in order to force the issue on the general electorate. Some candidates may just need a job to augment a poorly performing trust fund. Neither missionary zeal, narcissism nor financial need is justifiable motivation.

The leaders we want have passion, but not just for one issue. They are agile in their thinking, learn from experience, listen carefully and use their leadership authority with humility. They seek and tell the truth, and have an innate ethical sense but will not constrict a diverse society by the statutes of their own religious beliefs. That is to say they can differentiate between principle and practice. They respect the variety of philosophy and religion, the imperfection of intellect and spirit.

The leaders we don’t want have a pre-set agenda, know what they want, listen little or not at all to thoughtful advice and comment, exude authority and moral arrogance, focus on getting what they want by political chicanery, and are intellectually sloppy. Learning from others about an issue only muddles their thinking on the subject, so they avoid it. We have only to look at the current administration in Washington to see this failure of leadership style.

More than ever, we need leaders who eschew ideology, demagoguery and the easily packaged sound-bite that polarizes; who are not afraid to wade into the murky “middle way;” who see compromise as a virtue rather than a retreat; who are always listening and admit to the possibility of their own error; who say “we” rather than “they;” who embrace informed risk because they care more about those they serve than their own tenure, and thus are not paralyzed by the thought of political consequence.

Vermont has had a panoply of such leaders — think George Aiken, Dean Davis, Ralph Flanders, Madeleine Kunin, Dick Snelling and Howard Dean. And it still does today. As the dominant political parties wrestle with self-image problems and seem unable to rally around any uniform vision for society or a plan to achieve it, Vermonters luckily persist in electing people, not parties. Remember when Vermonters chose Reagan, Kunin and Sanders?

Irma didn’t have to run for office — let alone stand for election every two years, as is tradition in Vermont’s statewide offices. We adhere to a biennial election calendar that others have long since abandoned and that relentlessly compromises the people we elect. Races come around so fast in the Green Mountains that it presents a major stumbling block to good leadership.

We seem to enjoy being different, even when it is wasteful and impractical. The two-year election cycle leaves too little time for political courage and execution, and demands too much time for posturing and electioneering.

Would a good candidate for an executive position in a billion-dollar enterprise wrestling with constant societal and economic change agree to take the job with a two-year employment agreement? What leader can function knowing that he or she will have to spend the last quarter of his or her tenure lobbying for the next two-year employment agreement? And why wouldn’t a leader avoid any substantive and badly needed reform that would generate pain or controversy if they knew it might endanger their continued tenure?

Is an office-holder with a 24-month mandate really going to take on transformative change — forge a strategic tax policy that rewards citizen and corporate behaviors beneficial to Vermont, simplify the educational governance problem, develop a coherent energy policy, or understand and adapt to shifts in the agricultural landscape and marketplace if the consequence of such an initiative means they will be threatened by opponents before they have a chance to complete the task?

One bit of good news: Vermonters vote in greater numbers than their counterparts in other states. But simply showing up at the polls isn’t enough. We are very adept at criticizing and back-benching our leaders and their difficult choices. We’re less committed to choosing them carefully in the first place. We must invest the necessary time to think about issues and positions and the caliber of the individuals we’re electing, for both national and state leadership roles. Politics alone will get us nowhere, slowly.

 

Bill Schubart

Posted Land

When I was young in Morrisville fifty years ago people did not post their land. No Trespassing signs were a rarity and were usually found around the properties of newcomers who had moved in from down south or, in a few cases, not very cunning Vermonters themselves hiding a moonshine still or, later on in the Sixties, a modest marijuana crop. But a No Trespassing sign in those days was an invitation to investigate, especially if the landowner had a reputation for secrecy or nefarious activity. Farmers with large holdings did not need to post because, on the whole, hikers, hunters, anglers and amblers respected fence lines and knew not to tromp through unmown fields. Vermonters simply did not need to post their land, and, besides, it was seen by neighbors as an inherently hostile and reproving act.

 

The advice of Robert Frost’s neighbor as Frost encounters him in his poem Mending Fence, is “Good fences make good neighbors.” This dictum sufficed for most Vermonters.

 

Why now is “posting” land so common?  Is it the staggering run up in land values and an imagined need to protect private investment? Fifty years ago the run up in land values was just as steep. A hill farm bought after the war for $3,400 could fetch $12,000 ten years later.

 

Is it our shameful reputation for believing that behind every adverse occurrence in life someone is at fault and must be held legally and financially accountable?  Is it the propensity of a few to build wealth the easy way, to sue for it? Is it a manifestation our new “ownership society?”

 

There are laws on the books that protect property owners to a degree if they have an “attractive hazard” such as a naturally occurring swimming hole or a precipitous hiking trail. A local attorney who is well informed on such matters says there are very few such actions brought and, unless a landholder is clearly and personally culpable, adverse settlements are a rarity.

 

What is behind all these yellow signs littering the landscape of Vermont? What is the impact on our sense of community? Just as so many suburban developments have become gated communities, are we in Vermont to become a posted community? What has changed?

 

Some or all of the following may, of course, play a role: fear of liability litigation, the emergence of animal rights groups dedicated to protecting wild animals, environmental concerns for wilderness areas and loss of habitat, the rise of invasive off-road vehicles such as snow mobiles, ATV’s and dirt bikes. To varying degrees, these may be legitimate concerns, but do they warrant closing off one’s land to all?

 

There are less drastic measures one can take. It is possible to selectively post against off-road vehicles for example, or against hunters and trappers. Unfortunately one cannot post against “litigious individuals.”

 

The loss of open land for hiking, cross country skiing and snow shoeing and, yes, even for hunting, marks a significant change in how we Vermonters view our property, our neighbors and the communities in which we live. We would do well to ask ourselves whether we see ourselves as just owners of our land or whether indeed we are owners and stewards of our lands, as well as members of a community.

 

My wife did the cross-England walk last year. Besides Wainwright’s well traveled “coast to coast” route there are thousands of miles of footpaths available to amblers and hikers, a tradition that goes back centuries. The paths cross hundreds of miles of private property on which tens of thousands of cattle and sheep graze and crops grow. There are “kissing gates” and stiles built into all the fences for the walkers. Walkers by tradition respect the land and landowners welcome the walkers. This much loved and venerable tradition was formally endorsed by Parliament again last year.

 

Sadly, this is no longer an American tradition. Vermonters were once free to cross one and others land for foot travel. Imagine the opportunity for environmental tourism if we had such access for cross country skiers and hikers. Some 8000 people a year walk across England through the Lake District and the Yorkshire Moors.

 

If we continue to post all of Vermont, where will our children walk, fish, explore and hunt?

 

Bill Schubart

Head Heifer: Leadership

What should we look for when we choose a leader?

 

The very person in your small town who really wants to be the cop is probably the one individual you wouldn’t want in that position.

My first job, at age 12, was to let Volney Farr’s cows out to pasture before I left for school. It was well after their morning milking, which started at 4:30 a.m. After school, I’d open the pasture gate to let them in again. My only real responsibilities were to count them on their return, to ensure that all the gates were properly closed behind them, to count them again and secure them in their stanchions.

         Mr. Farr explained to me that I was not their leader; “Irma” was. I should do only what I was told. Irma, a Jersey, would do the rest.

          “How did Irma become the leader?” I once asked Mr. Farr.

         “She just did. The other girls chose her I s’pect,” he answered, “They do that, don’cha know.”

         Irma did indeed lead the “girls” out of the barn and to the pasture, where, under her watchful eye, they dispersed to browse and chew their cud. In the evening as I opened the gates, everyone followed Irma back into the barn and then went by themselves to their particular oak stanchion. Irma would nudge cows that dawdled or got distracted, and they would follow her. I carried Mr. Farr’s big oak cattleman’s stick to give myself the illusion of a role in this daily ritual.

         This somewhat Orwellian bovine allegory got me thinking the other day as I sat in front of the Trinitron watching the accelerating blitz of mostly misfiring campaign ads for the upcoming primary. How do people get to be leaders? What is it in their character that makes them suitable to lead us? What made Irma the leader? She didn’t appear to seek out her head-honcho role.

         Unlike cows, people do aspire to move to the head of the herd — and for many reasons, few of which derive, unfortunately, from any intrinsic leadership qualities. The very person in your small town who really wants to be the cop is probably the one individual you wouldn’t want in that position. A party press gang may commandeer a faithful lieutenant they deem electable, regardless of the person’s desire or ability to lead. Or worse, a crusader, convinced of his or her righteousness on a single cause, may rush hell-bent into the political arena seeking a key role in order to force the issue on the general electorate. Some candidates may just need a job to augment a poorly performing trust fund. Neither missionary zeal, narcissism nor financial need is justifiable motivation. 

         The leaders we want have passion, but not just for one issue. They are agile in their thinking, learn from experience, listen carefully and use their leadership authority with humility. They seek and tell the truth, and have an innate ethical sense but will not constrict a diverse society by the statutes of their own religious beliefs. That is to say they can differentiate between principle and practice. They respect the variety of philosophy and religion, the imperfection of intellect and spirit.

         The leaders we don’t want have a pre-set agenda, know what they want, listen little or not at all to thoughtful advice and comment, exude authority and moral arrogance, focus on getting what they want by political chicanery, and are intellectually sloppy. Learning from others about an issue only muddles their thinking on the subject, so they avoid it. We have only to look at the current administration in Washington to see this failure of leadership style.

         More than ever, we need leaders who eschew ideology, demagoguery and the easily packaged sound-bite that polarizes; who are not afraid to wade into the murky “middle way;” who see compromise as a virtue rather than a retreat; who are always listening and admit to the possibility of their own error; who say “we” rather than “they;” who embrace informed risk because they care more about those they serve than their own tenure, and thus are not paralyzed by the thought of political consequence.

         Vermont has had a panoply of such leaders — think George Aiken, Dean Davis, Ralph Flanders, Madeleine Kunin, Dick Snelling and Howard Dean. And it still does today. As the dominant political parties wrestle with self-image problems and seem unable to rally around any uniform vision for society or a plan to achieve it, Vermonters luckily persist in electing people, not parties. Remember when Vermonters chose Reagan, Kunin and Sanders?

 

Irma didn’t have to run for office — let alone stand for election every two years, as is tradition in Vermont’s statewide offices. We adhere to a biennial election calendar that others have long since abandoned and that relentlessly compromises the people we elect. Races come around so fast in the Green Mountains that it presents a major stumbling block to good leadership.

         We seem to enjoy being different, even when it is wasteful and impractical. The two-year election cycle leaves too little time for political courage and execution, and demands too much time for posturing and electioneering.

         Would a good candidate for an executive position in a billion-dollar enterprise wrestling with constant societal and economic change agree to take the job with a two-year employment agreement? What leader can function knowing that he or she will have to spend the last quarter of his or her tenure lobbying for the next two-year employment agreement? And why wouldn’t a leader avoid any substantive and badly needed reform that would generate pain or controversy if they knew it might endanger their continued tenure?

         Is an office-holder with a 24-month mandate really going to take on transformative change — forge a strategic tax policy that rewards citizen and corporate behaviors beneficial to Vermont, simplify the educational governance problem, develop a coherent energy policy, or understand and adapt to shifts in the agricultural landscape and marketplace if the consequence of such an initiative means they will be threatened by opponents before they have a chance to complete the task?

         One bit of good news: Vermonters vote in greater numbers than their counterparts in other states. But simply showing up at the polls isn’t enough. We are very adept at criticizing and back-benching our leaders and their difficult choices. We’re less committed to choosing them carefully in the first place. We must invest the necessary time to think about issues and positions and the caliber of the individuals we’re electing, for both national and state leadership roles. Politics alone will get us nowhere, slowly. 

 

Bill Schubart

Homage aux soeurs

While visiting Québec City last week for the Fêtes de la nouvelle France, we were wandering through Place Royale surrounded by early Québec re-enactors in period pantaloons, rough linen shirts and tricorne hats with conspicuous cell phones hanging from their beautiful woven sashes. Surrounded by countless camcorder-bearing tourists visiting for the Fêtes, the International Fireworks Expo at Montmorency and the sheer beauty of this ancient outcrop in the middle of the St Lawrence River, they were demonstrating early craft skills associated with agrarian and river life. Early Québecois music played somewhere in the distance, a mixture of ribec, galician pipes and fiddle, when suddenly a small flock of elderly nuns strolled by in their beautiful off-white habits smiling broadly at us. I had not seen such a sight in years and I was inundated with memories of an earlier Vermont, my own Catholic upbringing and the extraordinary impact of nuns on our own state.

 

Jeanne Mance School of Nursing, Fanny Allen Hospital, Bishop Degoesbriand Hospital, Trinity College, the cloistered convent in Williston, Mater Christi School, Rice High School, Christ the King, Sacre Coeur in Newport and countless other reminders of the benevolence and good works of Vermont’s large population of sisters. These institutions and more were started and managed by the various orders whose sole mission was charitable works. Others were started by priests, but staffed by nuns.

 

There was in all this a commitment to good works and community, seemingly subsumed now in today’s culture of consumerism. Young woman facing poor prospects for marriage or worse, the fear of an abusive one filled with hard work, often sought refuge in a convent where they might enjoy the safety of a sisterhood, even as they faced the daunting task of helping others in need.

 

Vermonters of all faiths owe a great deal to the many orders of nuns who have been an important part of the fabric of our state, the Benedictines, the Ursulines, Sisters of Mercy, Sisters of the Sacred Heart, Sisters of Providence, Atonement Sisters, Daughters of the Holy Spirit, Sisters of St. Joseph and The Hospitallers of St. Joseph. While the male hierarchy of the Church struggles with their own misdeeds, a steep decline in their own numbers and the rise in orthodoxy that puts them at odds with many in their own flock, we can all be grateful for their female counterparts and for their simple good works of faith.

 

So often in life it is what we do rather than what we say that makes all the difference. Our children become who we are, not who we tell them to be. The exemplary life stands in stark contrast to the proffered life of harsh sermons, canon law, black and white orthodoxies and commandments.

 

Throughout the volatile history of the Catholic Church, nuns from many religious communities have suffered the edicts, politics and even retribution of the Church’s male hierarchy, getting their spiritual sustenance from helping others in need: raising orphan children, helping young men and woman in trouble find their way back into society, teaching, nursing and caring for the ill or infirm, tending the dying, feeding and caring for the poor.

There have been many leaders among the sisters themselves who have served Vermonters in government leadership positions, as college heads and hospital managers. The Bishop Degoesbriand and Fanny Allen hospitals were staffed largely by the Hospitallers of St. Joseph. Trinity College, whose early mission was to help young woman off the farm or from factory families become educated and have an economic choice beyond the first proposal of marriage was staffed largely by the Sisters of Mercy. And always behind these leaders, there were countless nuns whose only residual image might be a gentle smile, the beautiful habits of their particular order and the countless good works they have done in their community of faith.

 

In the temptation in the desert, Christ rejects the gifts of mystery power and authority in favor of the exemplary life and free will – a lesson not lost on the extraordinary nuns who have woven so much into the fabric of Vermont for 150 years. To simply care for someone without judging them is a great gift. We owe them much.

 

Bill Schubart

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