Real Local

Yesterday our micro-village held a pork roast and silent auction to benefit the owners of the country store that burned to the ground three weeks ago

It was by far the largest gathering I've witnessed in Vermont.  In the wedge-shaped parking lot in front of the fire hall, dozens stood in line to buy meal tickets.  There was a huge line to get food, a line in front of the baked-goods stall, and the auction room was so packed you could barely get around.

I greeted the people who were selling tickets, serving food, cutting meat, selling cookies, manning the auction.  I saw lots of people I recognized, and lots fewer whose names I could recall (I have a terrible time with names).  I did not speak to the honorees or to their surviving dog, Molly.  I figured they wouldn't remember me--we were not assiduous patrons of their store, since it stood in the opposite direction of our usual shopping expeditions--and they were probably worn out with greeting and thanking.   

Instead, I sat under a tent and ate the piles of food that had been put on my plate, nibbled cubes of Consider Bardwell cheese, drank a cola for the first time in years, and breathed in the barbecue fumes, the sudden summer air, and the feeling that something of real importance was taking place. 

Obviously, people showed up to support the store owners and encourage them to build again.  But yesterday's crowds could not possibly have consisted only of friends and clients of the owners, or of friends of their friends and clients, or of the entire population of the micro village.  No, those crowds came from other places, other villages with their own little, threatened stores.  And they came not only to help these particular owners, but in affirmation of the physical, social and even spiritual importance of these tiny businesses that are hanging on by a thread even while they anchor us to the "local."

When I moved here six years ago from a land of malls and superstores, the idea of supporting local cheese makers, potters, bread bakers, oil painters, glass blowers, goat farmers, and sellers of maple syrup and quarts of 2% milk had never crossed my mind.  Now, thanks to my friends and neighbors, the real meaning of  "local" has finally taken root in my brain, and in my heart.

Death Of A Country Store

When we were planning our move from Maryland to Vermont, we asked the man whose house we were buying if there were any motels nearby where we could spend the night before attending settlement the next morning.  "No, but I'll have moved out by then," he said,  "and you can stay in the house if you like."

We were amazed.  This was our ninth house purchase, and we had never been treated with such courtesy and trust.  There was one snag, however:  the house key.  "We won't be getting in until late," we said.  "How will we get the key?"  He laughed, "You won't need a key.  We've never locked our house."

And that's the way things were in our micro village, in the halcyon days a mere six years ago.  People didn't lock their houses or their cars.  Some exceptionally trusting souls even left car keys in the ignition.  But in the last several months, things have happened that are making life here somewhat less halcyon.  It began late last summer, when the village store was robbed of a couple thousand dollars of cigarettes.  It seems that nearby New York state had increased the cigarette tax, and a lot of country stores in Vermont suffered the same fate.  Still, it was scary--a night-time robbery right in our midst--and everyone felt terrible for the two nice guys who ran the store.  Neighbors took up a collection, and peace descended once again.

But didn't stay.  In the winter, two summer residences--houses that had stood empty and inviolate during the cold months year after year---were burglarized.  Then Friday night the village store--the same one that suffered the summer robbery--burned to the ground.  The owners escaped physical harm, and so did one of their three dogs.  But the other two perished, as did the homeless man who broke into a building next to the store and, accidentally or intentionally, set the fire.

The effect of something like this on such a tiny community is enormous.  Needless to say, this was the only store in the village, a center of social life as well as a convenient place to get a sandwich.  When the present owners bought the failing, decrepit business a few years ago, all eyes were on them.  Would they make a go of it?  Would you be able to get good coffee there?  Would they be "nice folks"?  The answer to all these questions was "yes."

Not surprisingly, then, neighbors began organizing relief efforts on behalf of the store owners before the ashes had cooled.  With remarkable speed and efficiency, arrangements have been made so people can donate on Facebook, and in the coming weeks there will be a pig roast at the firehouse, a silent auction, a bingo benefit at the library....and before long, we hope, the store will be rebuilt, and the men who run it will get over their appalling trauma and find goodness in life again.

Because we're human, however, as we donate money and buy raffle tickets and eat roast pork we're hoping in our heart of hearts that if we all hang together and help each other we will somehow keep future evils at bay.  This is magical thinking, of course, an attempt to maintain control over uncontrollable forces.

But I think it just might work.

P.S.  If any of you would like to make a donation, here is the link to a page where you can donate by credit card.  Scroll down below the paragraph under the photo and you'll see the "donate" button.