Lincoln has had a public library for ninety-nine years. Although a century isn't an especially long history for a library--the oldest continuous lending library in Vermont, the Brookfield Free Library, has been around since 1791--it isn't shabby.
Since the early 1930s, the library had been housed in Burnham Hall, a brick mesa of a building in the center of the village. Burnham's top floor was used for activities and town functions--everything from African dancing on Tuesday nights to the town's annual meeting each March--while the basement housed a dining room, a kitchen, and the library.
The basement library wasn't large: a mere five hundred square feet, plus a small storeroom in the back. It was never the sort of library where scholars would research Daniel Shays's insurrection or scan months of newspaper microfiche to understand the Vietnam War. The fact is there was no microfiche. The periodical room consisted of a card table with magazines, most of them donated: dog-eared Smithsonians, well-thumbed National Geographics.
But it was always inviting and cozy, and somehow Norton had managed to squeeze six thousand books into the space by the time the New Haven River filled it with five feet of water. Six thousand is not a huge number--eight times that many books were damaged at the Boston Public Library in August when a water main ruptured--but it's impressive for rural Vermont. Moreover, those six thousand books were choice.
On any given day, Norton was as likely to display a new novel by the archly comic British writer Martin Amis as she was a new biography of the Vermont-born president, Calvin Coolidge. Though she was always careful to purchase a variety of mysteries and bestsellers--the staples of any library--she also acquired literary novels, picture books, and esoteric explorations of nature.
One day last spring when I was writing about dandelions, I wandered by her library to see what she had on the wildflower. I walked home with thirteen books.
Before the flood, the library was open three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. In addition, every Friday morning the library held a story hour for preschoolers and their parents.
Though the room's ambience was created largely by the novels and histories in their clear plastic coats, it was never a mere roomful of books. It was a gathering place. I don't recall ever visiting there and being alone. In the afternoon, I could count on finding any number of senior citizens--eighty-three-year-old Margaret Harris, perhaps, or sixty-six-year-old Darlene Simmons. In the evenings, there were likely to be younger adults and parents with their junior high school-aged teenagers--though Wednesday nights could also be a wonderful wild card.
Nancy MacDonald has been volunteering on Wednesdays at the library for two decades, beginning the year she was pregnant with her oldest daughter. One autumn Wednesday a few years ago, Robert Hicks and Reed Prescott III appeared about the same time. Hicks crafts harpsichords for a living, and Prescott is a painter. Hicks happened to have a harpsichord in his car, and he brought it inside and started to play. Prescott returned home for the painting he was working on, and he brought it back for MacDonald's and Hicks's opinions.
It was, MacDonald recalls, like a little salon.
With the library closed for most of the summer, MacDonald was lost on Wednesday nights. The first evening she would normally have been there, she turned to her husband and confessed that she felt like a ship without a harbor.
Libraries in many small towns are like that. They're community centers. It doesn't matter if they have carefully planned programs for adults--world travelers with their slides from Nepal, chefs with their recipes for ginger pumpkin mousse--or well-orchestrated story hours for toddlers. It doesn't matter if they offer adult literacy programs or seminars on estate planning. They're still magnets for human contact. That's probably why they continue to matter even now, in an era when so much research can be done electronically on the Internet, and books can be found online.
MacDonald wasn't the only Lincoln resident who felt a little unhinged when the library was washed away. Most of us did. Elizabeth Saslaw had to find new excursions for her five-year-old daughter, Bridgette. Marjorie Bernoudy, who had only moved to Lincoln in March, had lost what she considered her base--the place where she was meeting her neighbors and getting to know them.
Some borrowers, of course, began using libraries in neighboring towns, which graciously offered free library cards. Others bought more books than usual. And some simply reread books in their private collections.
But it wasn't the same. A library, regardless of its size, is a social center, and Norton never shushed a soul in three decades as librarian.
Not long after the flood, I went to a library in a nearby town. It was a Wednesday, and none of the faces I had come to associate with my library that day were there. I didn't recognize a soul. It's odd, but other people's libraries can be intimidating, while yours can be your very best friend. That's one of the things that makes a community's public library very special. Moreover, the faces you see at a library are young and old and determinedly middle-aged. By their very nature, libraries are generationally democratic. They cater to everyone. School and work or classes and clubs may separate us, segregating us by interest and age. But libraries remain one of the few places in this world that still bring us together.
The Lincoln Library reopened in temporary quarters on August 12 with about two thousand books: perhaps twelve hundred that survived the flood, and another eight hundred new (or almost new) ones that were donated in July. The week the library opened, the shelves marked "Juvenile Nonfiction" were completely empty, and the adult fiction section skewed heavily to the A's and B's, the books that had been on the very top shelves the night of the flood.
Norton estimates there are at least another two thousand used books that were donated that haven't been filed yet. Her guess is that perhaps a fifth of them will become a part of the permanent collection, and the rest will be sold to raise money for new books and a new building.
The Lincoln Library has never had its own building, and Norton believes that it is now time. Until then, the library will remain upstairs in Burnham Hall's large common room. And though it will take hundreds of thousands of dollars to construct a new library and restock the collection, my sense is that within two or three years the town will have both. Lincoln isn't a rich community, but it knows what it wants. We elect three selectmen to run our town, for instance, but five trustees to manage our library.
Moreover, on the morning after the waters had drenched much of the library and the town gathered to try to save what remained, I saw dazed adults crying softly as they worked. They didn't cry that day for the roads or the bridges that had been lost, they didn't cry for the Burnham Hall kitchen that was destroyed alongside the library. But they did cry for their books--just as I believe that Anne Bradstreet and her neighbors mourned theirs.
Chapter 2.
WALK THE POSTAL ROUTE WITH
A MAILMAN TO GET TO KNOW THE TOWN
TEN SUMMERS AGO, I heard that an acquaintance from college I hadn't seen in eight years was attending the Bread Loaf School of English in Ripton and house-sitting somewhere in Bristol.
I thought it would be nice to catch up, and I sent him a letter with his name and the most precise address I could come up with:
ASPIRING WRITER
HOUSE-SITTING SOMEWHERE
BRISTOL, VT 05443
He received the letter the very next day, and for the last decade I have marveled at the mysterious power of the U.S. Postal Service's Bristol branch.
No more. The Bristol post office's secret is out, and it's a guy named Ron: Ron Williamson, to be precise.
Williamson is a mailman, and when he retires December 29, he will have been a letter carrier for thirty-four years and nine days. He might have been one even longer, but he taught school for ten years before deciding as a young man with a family that it made financial sense for his part-time job with the U.S. Postal Service to become his full-time one.
He is sixty-four, and he still walks eight miles a day around Bristol
--the great loping strides of a man in excellent physical condition--with a mailbag slung over his shoulder that often holds thirty to thirty-five pounds of mail. He performs his foot route in the middle of the day, after sorting mail in the early morning and before delivering yet more mail by truck in the afternoon.
Last week I took a walk around Bristol with Williamson, and though I didn't need oxygen or cardiopulmonary resuscitation, I was tired . . . and mightily impressed.
Yet it wasn't simply Williamson's physical stamina that earned my admiration, nor was it his ability to sense black ice with preternatural skill. It wasn't even his cheerful indifference to the cold: Although the temperature didn't top eighteen degrees the day we marched around the village together, he didn't wear a glove on his right hand. A glove, he explained, makes it difficult to separate the mail at each stop.
Rather, it was the way the man serves day in and day out as one of those unobserved but vital buttresses that support a neighborhood, and, in fact, gives the word neighbor its profound resonance.
At some houses on our walk, we do not place the mail in the postbox, but we leave it inside the front porch so a senior citizen doesn't have to navigate the icy steps. At others, we deliver stamps (as well as mail) for the shut-ins who don't get out as much as they'd like, and we stay and chat for a few minutes because this visit might be all the company they will have for the day.
Williamson can rifle off the names of the families (and their dogs) on each and every street in the village, tell you who is home and away and (yes) the names of the house-sitters. He can tell you the history of each home.
There is the house in which Leena Ladeau lived. When she was alive, he couldn't pass by without stopping for freshly baked cookies or hot coffee.
Here is Sam McKinnon's house, and no one, it seems, has a better memory for Bristol minutiae than Sam, despite the fact he is flirting with the age of ninety-two.
Mail is magic. Even now, an era in which e-mail governs so much of our business communication and the telephone is our constant companion, the arrival of our mail six days a week retains the ability to excite us. There are a variety of reasons for this, not the least of which, I imagine, are the handcrafted nature of the personal letter and the reality that all mail allows for a critical third dimension--bulk, if you will, and I use that word advisedly--that neither e-mail nor the telephone offers.
But there is another reason that sometimes transcends the content: the delivery itself, and the way people like Williamson link us with our neighbors and remind us why we live where we do.
Chapter 3.
IT'S THE CREAM CHEESE BROWNIES
THAT BRING OUT THE VOTE
THE OTHER DAY I told my father in Fort Lauderdale how one votes here in Lincoln. We were discussing our process because South Florida is clearly no more capable of handling a modern election than it is a blizzard in April. This is the corner of the country, after all, that in 2000 brought us the terms "hanging chad" and "pregnant chad" (an oxymoron if ever there was one), and in 2002 introduced computer voting machines that would have befuddled the engineers behind the Nintendo GameCube.
I told my father that our procedure is pretty straightforward. On election morning I walk from my house to the dining room in Burnham Hall, the closest thing we have here in Lincoln to a town hall. We vote in the dining room for a lot of reasons, but I believe the most important is that invariably there is a bake sale sponsored by the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Lincoln Volunteer Fire Company and it seems appropriate to have the sale in close proximity to the hall's kitchen.
I don't honestly know whether more people vote because they can purchase homemade apple pie at a price so agreeable it is almost embarrassing, or whether the Ladies' Auxiliary chooses this moment to have a bake sale because there is already so much traffic at the hall. This is one of those great chicken-and-egg questions, though I will confess that I once voted in a meaningless primary because I heard there were some delicious angioplasty-causing cream cheese brownies for sale.
When I arrive, Eleanor Scully crosses my name off the town list. You can vote early here in Lincoln, but you can't vote often. Eleanor, who happens to be a member of the local rescue squad, helps out with elections while her husband, Bud--who hasn't let a little thing like lung cancer interfere with his own responsibilities on the rescue squad--handles her shift at the rescue station.
Mary Pierce, the organist at the local church, hands me a ballot, a piece of paper about twice the size of a diner place mat. The document has thick black boxes separating each office, and the name of each candidate in type about the same size as the print in a Curious George picture book. It's nice and big.
I take my ballot into a wooden kiosk with a curtain that shields me from the waist up, and there I use a pencil to make my choices. The ballot instructs me to make an "X" in the boxes beside the names of the candidates for whom I would like to vote, and informs me precisely how many candidates to vote for in each section: two state senators, for example, or seven justices of the peace. There are lines on which I may write in a name, if I am feeling either curmudgeonly or rebellious.
When I exit the kiosk there is a ballot box waiting. It has a thin slot at the top, so my privacy is preserved--though I know if I were one the folks who stands vigil beside it, once in a while I'd peek.
After the polls close, our town clerk, Kathy Mikkelsen, rounds up her volunteers to count the ballots. We don't have special auditors like the Academy Awards, but we have representatives from the mighty impressive-sounding Board of Civil Authority, and that has always been good enough for me.
The next day I wander by the general store, and Vaneasa Stearns, the owner, informs me who won.
That's all there is to it, and even separated by 1,600 miles I could tell that my father was shaking his head the way he does whenever he learns that another Belgium-sized tract of land in the Everglades is about to be turned into condominiums. To paraphrase Elvis Costello, my father used to be disgusted. Now he tries to be amused.
Unfortunately, Florida will never be able to vote the way we do here in Lincoln--the way we do in most of Vermont. It's too crowded. It's too impersonal. And those cream cheese brownies wouldn't stand a chance in the South Florida heat.
Chapter 4.
THE SLOWEST DRIVER IN VERMONT
I NOTICED THE flashing lights behind me just north of a freshly cut field of corn, and pulled over beside a ramshackle white equipment barn.
The state trooper, a woman about my age, asked me if I knew I was driving seventy-five miles per hour in a fifty-mile zone.
I told her that I did, and explained, "I had to go that fast. I was passing a truck going sixty."
This was the wrong answer. As a result of that truck, that trooper, and that ticket (my second), I now have nine points on my driver's license--or one short of hitchhiking.
By necessity I have become, I am confident, the slowest driver in Vermont: slower than my neighbor Ray Grimes, who was ninety-two this winter (only a few years older than his rust-red pickup truck); and slower even than the long yellow school bus that honked at me to speed up just south of Starksboro one morning at 7:15.
Now I'm not proud of being the slowest driver in Vermont. It is a distinction without glory, a notoriety born of the aggravation I inflict on all who must drive behind me. Though perhaps not literally cruel and unusual punishment, the time I spend with this scarlet "A" (Acceleration) upon my license is proving to be a sentence of far more consequence than the simple monetary fines I paid for my transgressions.
Burlington, for instance, is thirty-two miles from my home here in Lincoln. I must now drive each and every one of those miles at exactly five miles below the speed limit. Forty-five miles per hour in a fifty-mile zone, twenty-five miles per hour in the thirty-mile zones. I can no longer pass the dump trucks that emerge like dinosaurs from the Hinesburg gravel pits and lumber north toward Burlington at thirty miles an hour. I can no longer race through the yellow traffic lights in Williston, bu
t instead must coast to a stop before them and wave politely at whoever has stopped behind me and honked.
And although most of those thirty-two miles are on Vermont's Route 116, an extremely scenic little road dotted with dairy farms and villages, how many trips will it take before the wonder of the largest manure storage tank in the county wears thin?
I estimate that my new pace has added somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes each way to the drive.
Time, however (or lost time, more exactly), is the least horrific part of being the slowest driver in Vermont. There is an element to my punishment that is far worse.
I have become an automotive pariah, a thing to be avoided, a car to be shunned by my peers on the road. I know this because I have seen it in the eyes and scowls of my fellow drivers as they pass by me, often glancing to their sides to view the source of their frustration.
Certainly some drivers find me more aggravating than others, but it has now gotten to the point where I can tell almost instantly the degree of contempt I will see abruptly beside me by the way a driver warms up to pass.
There are, essentially, two kinds of tailgaters. There are the passive-aggressors, and then there are the aggressive-passers. No small distinction, this.
The passive-aggressors are those drivers who pull up directly behind me, but are--for whatever the reason--afraid to pass. Passive-aggressors tend to be hunched forward over their steering wheels, and often look as if they are trying to blow my car forward with their exasperated breaths. They believe that by driving as close as possible to my rear bumper, they can literally will me to drive faster. (Uh-uh. With nine points, not a chance.) Eventually they become desperate enough to pass, glaring at me as they whiz by with a look that would wither fruit.
Idyll Banter (2003) Page 5
