Vermont Roots | Belonging

What does it mean to have Vermont Roots?  It’s a set of experiences and a perspective different than any other in the United States.  It could be argued that I can’t claim this, having been born and raised in upstate New York, but a good percentage of my family hails from this part of the world.  The time I spent here in my early life has shaped me and carries as much richness as the state soil.  Soil that produces the tomatoes that can ruin a person for life. The flavor that only a return visit can satisfy. 

When I was young, we spent a lot of time at my Grandparent’s house in Granville, New York.  The house on East Main Street was the last stop before the Vermont border; the next house over had a Vermont zip code, and the far side of their driveway was literally the border.  How cool!  Especially when young, these arbitrary things are magic.  And my Aunt and Uncle lived in an old farmhouse three miles past that border – close enough to walk, if necessary.  I still dream about these two houses.

Summertime

My parents were both teachers, so we had the freedom to spend a lot of time here in the summers.  What I remember:  the humid summer scent of the grass down by the Mettowee river, which would flood the cornfields almost every year.  We could see the water rise and recede from the kitchen window.  The path to Twin Rivers – past the slate quarry to our favorite swimming hole.  Berry picking and jam making – with our stained hands and the scent of cooked berries in the air for hours. A lot of baking.  Storytelling.  Family meals, and people dropping by for coffee unannounced.  Canasta and scrabble.  Sewing and knitting.  Exploring the books and old copies of Reader’s Digest that were on the back porch.  So much family time. 

At The Farm

Our Thanksgivings were big, bustling gatherings of 20-30 people every year, hosted at the farm.  Aunt Joyce and Uncle Charley’s house would expand to fit as many as joined, year after year.  We’d set up tables in the sitting room and the living room, and if needed the in the room beyond that.  It was a mix of family and friends, and everyone contributed.  We borrowed chairs from the church, and after a dinner that included turkey, stuffing, gravy, homemade bread (Grandma Carrie’s recipe), sour pickles, mincemeat and pumpkin pie, coffee jello (yes, a thing); we would sing and dance.  My mom would play the piano, and we would hand out the lyrics to some of the songs from the early 20^th century.  There were years that we square danced.  It was tradition to take a walk up the hill, across the sometimes-frozen creek, over to the back pasture, down the hill and back to the house.  Some years there were cows on the land.  On the soft rise of hill across the driveway, we would all gather for the annual photograph, taken by the late Neil Rappaport – a well-respected Vermont photographer who had become part of our family by virtue of renting the small house on the property – a supposedly temporary situation that fortunately lasted several years.  These are the memories of the Vermont that took part in raising me, that contributed to how I see the world and feel about family ties.

Belonging

Each other person who experienced the farm or our family has their own experiences attached, and it’s likely that not all experiences are remembered in the same soft glow of nostalgic memory shared here.  Family dynamics are often tough.  But recently, on a Vermont family Zoom call celebrating a milestone birthday,  I was reminded of how important these experiences have been to me, and how still, even though I haven’t joined a Thanksgiving there in many years, there is still shared connection and foundation of family that reminds me of my roots, one in which, all these years later, allows me to feel like I still belong. 

With love and light,
K

Resources: Book to check out:  Messages From a Small Town, Photographs Inside Pawlet, Vermont

Photo: Taken by Neil Rappaport at a Baker Thanksgiving