The Smallest of Small Towns

No one has ever heard of my hometown. My local store has a T-shirt that says so. With a population of less than 500, we have no elementary school (there aren't enough kids) and no post office (we share one with the town below us).

When my boyfriend and I moved to the mountains we were fresh from New York City and hadn't yet adjusted back to the country life we'd grown up with. Located in the Northwest Kingdom of the state and a stones throw from the Canadian border, our cabin-in-the-woods sits in what locals call "the snow belt of Vermont." Winters are rough and jobs are scarce. It takes a strong will to live in these mountains and out neighbors tend to be proud. So they were curious about the young couple with tattoos and wild hair bands playing loudly from P.A. speakers.

The sign on the store read "No Backpacks."

"Must be because of the Long Trail." My boyfriend, Nick, commented as we walked in. We didn't have backpacks on so we didn't think we'd get hassled. And it wasn't so much a hassle that we got as it was a stare.

"Do they think we're going to take something?" I ask within ear shot of the middle aged lady behind the counter. We left with no problem, cursing the fact that it was the closest store to our new home.

Native Vermonters live by a code: Not in my back yard. While threatening at first sound, the creed allows the personal independence of small town homesteads. Independence to use your land, your home, and your property as you choose as long as you respect your neighbor's right to do so also.

My boyfriend filled the Malibu's gas tank and with one glance between us we cursed the lack of a local economy. Nick was off to pick out a tasty treat for dessert and I to find a twelve pack of beer. It had been close to six months since we moved and I was just starting to get the layout of the coolers: domestic, micro-brewed, six-pack, case.

As the man-who-doesn't-make-small-talk rang up our $73 bill we dug out id's to prove our age (almost 30) and he brushed them away. "You've come here enough," he shooed, "I know how old you are."

When a tornado hit the town below and destroyed power-lines, houses, cars, and lots and lots of trees, we were without a phone for days. Crews of workers, and lots of volunteers came to cut and stack wood (with winter coming, there was a lot of firewood to be harvested) and fix what needed to be fixed.

We don't put up political signs - what we do in that booth is our business. We don't advertise with glitzy signs - a table of veggies on the side of the road with a coffee can is business enough. Chicken suppers and natural disasters bring neighbors together with a cooperative fervor we never found in the big city.