Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  Back home, I would have been thrilled to have a babysitter like Mandy. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled to have her in Vermont, too, but in Memphis I only needed babysitters when I was going out for fun. Now, I had to desert my daughters six nights per week so I could apprentice under Sergeant Helga Schloygin.

  My restaurant duties commenced with instruction by Helga, stationed at a makeshift service bar on top of the washing machine and dryer. Handwriting the dinner checks was my primary responsibility. Observing Helga while she mixed drinks was secondary and not a chore she was ready to pass down. Her cigarettes kept a steady burn in the ashtray right next to my allergic nose and a cloud of smoke always hovered over the light fixtures above. If her cig wasn’t in the ashtray, it was hanging out of the right side of her mouth. She’d puff while vigorously shaking her martinis over to her left side. I’d sneeze and she’d smoke. One night she told me I needed to see an allergy doctor because my sneezing was irritating her. Now that’s what I call colossal nerve.

  Whenever Helga would allow me to make an appearance in the dining room, to deliver drinks or show a group of guests to their table, they all had the same question. Who were we and what brought us to Vermont? Even if a customer knew nothing about me, all I had to do was open my mouth. “What brings you to Vermont?” they would ask. “You must have family here.” “Did you own a restaurant down south?” “This must be quite a change for you.”

  I would go into great detail about how we wanted to give our children the best life had to offer. I rambled on about my adventurous spirit, and the fact that Baker’s job was allowing him no family flexibility. By the time I left their table, they knew my life history. But my long conversations with the customers used to bug the ever-loving fire out of Helga. That wasn’t her style, so it need not be mine. On numerous occasions she would come up to the table, interrupt me, and tell me I was wanted in the kitchen.

  When it got busy, Pierre would run around frantic, afraid of making a mistake. Helga insisted he be the only one to take every order and open every bottle of wine. One night I decided to help him by delivering a bottle of wine to a four-top table. I had completed only two turns of the corkscrew when I felt a hip knock me out of place. Before I knew it, the wine bottle was yanked from my hands and Helga muttered through gritted teeth and a phony smile, “I’ll do it.”

  Silence loomed among the four people at the table. I’m sure they were afraid to say a word for fear the Sergeant would reprimand them, too. I managed to give them a weak smile as I sheepishly turned and walked away. That incident made me mad, but the situation with Helga was much too tense to make any waves. Of course, I complained to Baker, but his attitude was circumspect. “Just let it go,” he said. “We need them. Let’s not rock the boat.”

  Moving to Willingham, Vermont, was most definitely an avalanche of an adjustment. Topping the list for biggest adaptation was the climate. In thirty-two years of temperate Southern living, the coldest weather I had ever lived through was nineteen degrees. And on those very rare occasions in Memphis, pipes start bursting and animal safety warnings are broadcast. Everyone keeps their faucets dripping and the department stores sell out of electric blankets. Snow rarely sticks for more than a day or two. When it does snow, the mayor might as well put an Out of Order sign on Memphis. Even the banks close. People hurry out to put chains on their tires and the schools stay closed for days, until the last little bit of snow finally melts.

  Snowfall up north, I learned, meant business as usual no matter how much snow happened to stick. Before you even noticed the snow falling, the town plows were on the scene. Their bellowing engines, mixed with the sound of the scraper on the front of the truck, could be heard a mile away. There’s so much snow falling and sticking that it takes a monster machine with a tremendous shovel on the front to clear it out of the way. It gets pushed to the side of the road and there it sits until May. When it gets really deep, the town has to send in a backhoe. As the plows keep shoving the snow to the edges of the parking lots, the area for the cars keeps getting smaller and smaller. So it has to be removed and hauled off to a desolate area.

  What the town was not responsible for was private driveways. In stepped the woodchuck. Every chuck living in the state of Vermont, even Jeb Duggar, attached a monster shovel to the front of his own truck in the winter. It took a total of two and a half minutes to plow our entire parking lot. (I know because I timed it once.) And for that I paid Jeb fifty-five dollars. During the heavy snowfalls, it had to be plowed two or three times in one day. Each chuck fought for his customers. It was not uncommon for one of them to take in over twelve hundred dollars within twenty-four hours. I would like to say “I’m in the wrong business.” But for obvious reasons, I don’t think I have what it takes to be a woman woodchuck.

  Once, I went a week and a half without any mail deliveries. When I called the post office to find out why, the postmaster said, “Unless you keep the area in front of your mailbox free of snow, the postman will not stop.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?” I asked the postmaster. They should put out a newcomer’s manual to educate poor unsuspecting souls on life in Vermont.

  Ever heard of a roof rake? Me neither. People in Vermont have to rake their roofs! They have to clear the snow off before it turns into ice. Roof rakes come with telescope handles that can extend to thirty feet. They fly out of the hardware stores as soon as October approaches.

  Jeb raked our roof. And sometimes he’d let it go too long, and would have to get up on the slate roof wearing these metal spiked shoes and chisel away at the ice. The fear is that the weight of the ice could cause extensive damage to the slate roof. Jeb scared me to death climbing on top of all that ice but it didn’t seem to scare him in the least.

  When I first arrived in Vermont, Roberta got a kick out of the contents of my suitcase. Talking about ill prepared for the elements. I had ten or twelve sundresses, four or five bathing suits, several pairs of sandals, silk cocktail dresses, shorts and T-shirts, skirts and blouses. Oh, and blue jeans, I had several pairs of blue jeans. Now, of course I had sweaters, the nice soft cotton kind. Even my nightgowns and socks were made of cotton. But I had never needed a heavy-duty wool sweater, until I moved to Vermont.

  “Layer,” people would tell me, but I had no idea what they meant. I tried shopping for the right clothes, but I couldn’t seem to find my place in the fashion scene. In the same way that I’m not the Birkenstock type, I’m not the L.L.Bean type, either.

  Consequently, I froze.

  The little tiny bathroom in our apartment was the warmest room in the house because of the space heater. Each morning when I woke up I would grab my clothes out of the dresser in the hall, and head straight for the bathroom. I’d huddle in front of the space heater while I dressed; a habit that would become an everyday routine.

  And I thank God for toe heaters. That extra little gift Baker added to my Christmas present. Once I discovered those, I wore them any time I ventured outdoors.

  Roberta took great joy in taking on the role of my personal Vermont advisor, so I came to her with all my Northern questions.

  “Black ice?” I asked, as I was getting ready to drive into Manchester for a liquor run. “What’s that?”

  “You better watch out for it, Leelee. There are deadly patches of ice hiding on them roads. Them are nearly impossible to see because they’re the same color as the asphalt.”

  “Thanks for warning me, I’ll be cautious,” I told her.

  As my luck would have it there were patches of black ice every quarter mile of the thirty miles between the inn and Manchester. The worst part is that I was going down the mountain. Every few seconds I was pumping my brakes (a trick Jeb taught me) and the line of cars behind me kept getting longer and longer. I shook my head at them in disgust every time a daredevil whizzed past me. I was driving close to thirty miles per hour, and everyone else was doing at least sixty. I didn’t care what they thought about me, so I took my time and made it safe
ly into Manchester.

  Two weeks later, Baker and I were riding together and I was taking my time (moose-watching) and pumping my brakes the same way as before. He told me to either speed up or let him drive. “If you think, for one moment, I am going to be like one of those daredevils who speed over black ice, you are sadly mistaken,” I told him.

  “What black ice? There’s no black ice today,” Baker said, as if I had lost my mind.

  “I beg your pardon, there’s a spot right up there. Look.” I pointed at a spot as we drove right past.

  “What makes you think that’s black ice?”

  “Roberta told me. Black ice is dangerous and deceiving and this road is full of it.”

  “Leelee, I’m telling you that is not black ice. Those are tar patches.”

  “They are too black ice. Roberta described it to me in great detail.”

  “Here, pull over if you don’t believe me and let all these cars pass us.”

  I pulled the Explorer over to the side of the road and waited ’til the coast was clear to get out and touch one of the spots. It was a tar patch all right.

  I stormed back to the car and opened my door. “How was I supposed to know about black ice?” I slid back into the seat and slammed the car door. “I’d never even heard that term before we moved here. My God, I’ve never driven in this much snow and I’ve sure never shoveled it.”

  “Who’s making you shovel snow? Have I asked you to pick up a snow shovel one time?” Baker raised his voice and glared at me.

  “No, but I’ve had to make plenty of other adjustments about this snow. It’s pretty and all, but it sure is hard to live in.” I looked behind me and eased back out onto the road. “We can’t even run to the mailbox without bundling up. It takes a half hour to dress the girls to go outside. Every time they fall down they start crying. Then, they want to come back in ten minutes later because the snow’s too deep. And Gracie, forget Gracie! Have you seen her scratch on the door to go out one time?”

  “This is the North.” He deliberately lowered his voice. Something he always does to make a point. “Snow is a way of life here.”

  “It’s never been my way of life. No one ever told me any of this.” Out of frustration, I clenched the steering wheel. Since I was trying to keep my eyes on the road, I could only steal looks at him.

  “You’ll be fine. Just toughen up and quit acting so helpless.” Baker looked over at me. “Even Scarlett O’Hara learned to pick her own cotton.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. “That is the stupidest, meanest thing I’ve ever heard. What’s gotten into you, Baker?”

  “I’m sorry, I was trying to make a joke,” he said, and reached over and patted my leg. “I’m just tired. I’m working so many more hours than I ever have before.”

  Really? I longed to say. Why didn’t you consider that before we moved? Much the same way you neglected to examine the finances this whole life change would require. Our hole had been getting deeper and the income from the inn wasn’t filling it back up. We had no choice but to dip into what was left of Daddy’s life insurance money. And once that was gone, we had no more reserve. Daddy, always the wise protector, had sheltered the rest of my inheritance. He left his money in trust and I couldn’t touch another penny until I turned forty.

  I was too upset to say another word so we rode in silence the rest of the way into Manchester.

  I was in the commercial kitchen fixing an early dinner for the girls, sometime in the middle of February, when I felt my first Vermont sonic boom. It was a Monday—I lived for Mondays because the restaurant was closed. No customers, no employees, and no Helga. I was carrying their plates into the red-checked dining room when I heard a noise so deafening the whole house shook, like an earthquake had hit. It frightened me so that when I jumped back the chicken fingers on the plates flew up in the air and ended up on the floor. I squashed one running for cover. Since the girls and I were alone in the house, I yelled for them to jump into my arms and we all ran down cellar.

  “What was that?” Isabella asked, as I was hurrying down the steps.

  “Why are we hiding in the basement?” Sarah wanted to know.

  “Mama’s not sure, but everything’s gonna be okay,” I said, by this time out of breath and trying to keep them calm. As far as I knew, earthquakes never happened in Vermont. I distinctly remembered asking Ed Baldwin last summer.

  After fifteen minutes went by and no more noises, we tiptoed up the stairs and peeked out the basement door into the red-checked dining room. Everything was perfectly still. Not wanting to take any chances, though, the girls and I bolted for the apartment. I locked us in until Baker came back from Manchester. He thought I was making the whole thing up until Sarah convinced him that I was really telling the truth.

  It wasn’t until Roberta came to work the next morning that I found out what really had happened. I waited until she had used the restroom before telling her about the noise I had heard. (The very first thing Roberta did when she got to work was slip right into the half bath in the kitchen. At first I wondered what her hurry was all about. Finally it dawned on me. Roberta saved her number two for the inn. Her woodchuck husband refused to install an indoor toilet at their house. Moe told her “pissers ain’t nothing but a luxury.” So poor round Roberta Abbott, nicest woman in Vermont, had to either squat over a bowl inside or traipse outside to an outhouse.) Before I had even finished describing the noise Roberta knew exactly what had happened.

  “I’m happy to report you didn’t hear an earthquake,” she said confidently. “What you heard was roof ice.”

  “Roof ice?”

  “Yuup. It makes an awful bang, when it finally drops.”

  “I don’t get it,” I told her.

  “The first time the sun shines after a heavy snowfall, it melts the ice underneath the snow on the roof. When it cracks, the whole side slides off at once. It sounds like a bomb explodin’, I tell you. And it comes with no warnin’.”

  “That could kill somebody!”

  “It sure could. You better watch them girls, especially around the south side.”

  From that day on, the children and I only entered and exited by way of the front door of the inn, which had the pointy side of the roof’s eave above it and no chance of our accidental death.

  It should not come as a surprise that no one had bothered to forewarn me about Vermont’s killer roofs.

  One February morning Roberta told me a nor’easter was headed our way. She heard the weather forecast on her scanner before she came into work. She and Moe listened to a police scanner—religiously—every evening of their adult life. They even slept with it on in the background. Occasionally their scanner picked up cordless telephone conversations. I don’t think Roberta meant to tell me that little detail; it just slipped out. Between Roberta Abbott and George Clark, privacy was a luxury, a downright precious commodity.

  Nor’easter is slang for a Northeastern heavy storm. Before moving to Vermont, I had never even heard of a nor’easter. After Roberta’s warning we all dashed out to the grocery store to stock up on food, candles, and bottled water. Jeb brought plenty of firewood in from the porch and placed it around all the fireplaces in case the power went out. “Fill your bathtubs up,” he told me. “We could be without power for quite a while.”

  “Why do we need to do that?” I asked him.”

  “So you can flush your toilets and wash your clothes.”

  Lovely, I thought.

  Snow started falling around lunchtime. When it came time for the restaurant to open, every one of our reservations had cancelled. Nor’easters are quite stressful in the restaurant biz. An overhead-only evening makes for a tense climate in the kitchen. Not only were the waitstaff upset over the loss of tips, Rolf would grumble and drop hints to Baker about getting his mortgage payment on time.

  I, for one, was happy about the storm. It gave me a family night alone with my husband and daughters. We played Hi Ho Cherry-O together and then watched Chitty Chit
ty Bang Bang until the power went out, right as the magical car first took off in the air. Baker and the girls fell asleep on the couch. I sat alone in the dark listening to a branch scrape against the window and gazed out over the backyard. The snow was falling so heavily I couldn’t see a thing. This must be the “whiteout” Roberta had warned me about.

  Fortunately, the power came back on within an hour. Though once we crawled into bed the inside temperature had dropped dramatically.

  “I’m gonna bring the girls in with us,” I said to Baker, snuggling up behind him.

  “No, there isn’t enough room.” He never even turned around.

  “But they’ll be scared. Just listen to the wind. I’m scared.”

  “They’ll be fine. They’re asleep.”

  “Issie wakes up during every thunderstorm at home and this one is ten times worse.”

  “Then go get in bed with her.”

  “Fine.” I rolled off the bed and dashed into the girls’ room.

  Cuddled up next to my baby daughter, I listened while the house creaked and the crevices around the windows and doors whistled an eerie tune. It must have been after 2:00 A.M. by the time I fell asleep. Something about Baker isn’t right. He’s a different man up here.

  The next morning, Baker and Pierre pitched in to help Jeb with the snowblower. (Incidentally, a snowblower is another piece of equipment that was foreign to me.) It took them all day to clear the walkways. We had accumulated four feet of fresh snow and that was on top of the five feet we already had. By the time the guys finished, our dormant European garden had been transformed into a labyrinth of snow. The brick walkways leading to the doors were now hedged with pure white powder.