Idyll Banter (3 page)

The elementary school was built by volunteer labor—farmers who found time between haying and milking—in 1952, after an earlier schoolhouse burned down. In 1978, when the proposal to establish a public kindergarten was rejected at a town meeting, the young parents who had been running a preschool in the town hall raised money to construct their own building.

Price says that while the old-timers may have occasionally smirked at the colony of Middlebury alumni and their friends, they tended to take individuals in the group under their wing. Kim Smith remembers buying land from a local building excavator, Floyd Hall, in 1972: “He could have really stuck it to me if he'd wanted to, but he didn't. I was this twenty-two-year-old college kid from the Midwest who had some money, and I had no idea what land was supposed to cost. But Floyd charged me what I've since come to realize was a fair price. It was the same way when he put in my driveway. He's just a real honest guy.”

Even though he wears his hair long and brought vegetarian falafel burgers to the A & W in Middlebury after he bought the restaurant, Smith has been consistently elected to the town school board since the mid-1980s. There is often heated debate at town meetings about the rising cost of education, but “we've never had a school budget defeated,” he says proudly. “This community has always been very supportive.”

   

While the barns in the hills may be decaying, the center of town had a dramatic face-lift in the 1980s. “Downtown Lincoln wasn't so picturesque when I got here in the early 1970s,” Price recalls.

When most Vermont towns are gentrified, the impetus—and the funding—is likely to come from newcomers. Lincoln is an exception. What Price calls the “beautification of the downtown” began with a tragedy and was led by families with Lincoln pedigrees dating back well into the last century.

In 1981, on the night of Good Friday, a gas leak in the United Church of Lincoln sparked a fire that reduced the only active church in town to ashes. About all that remained of the century-old Protestant church was the steel weathervane that rose from the top of the steeple. The church had rested on a small rise, at one of the four corners where Lincoln's two main roads intersect, the literal and metaphoric heart of the town. When Easter Sunday services were held that year at the town hall, diagonally across the street from the hillside where the church had been, the parishioners looked out windows toward the still smoldering ashes, and many of them wept.

Rev. David Wood and his wife, Donna, had arrived in town only two years earlier, and were still getting to know the congregation when the church went up in flames. They were a couple in their late twenties with two young children. “A lot of people thought David would just turn around and leave when the church burned,” Donna says. “But I knew he wouldn't. I knew
we
wouldn't.”

About half a mile from the center of town was the old Methodist church building, which for decades had stood vacant. While it might have been easier to simply rededicate the church for ecumenical Protestant services, the fire had left a hole in the center of town more pronounced than the loss, perhaps, of a whole city block in the middle of Boston.

“Imagine driving up the road to Lincoln and finding that hill empty,” says Beverly Brown. Brown grew up beside the church and owned the general store across the street with her husband, Donald, for almost fifteen years.

The congregation raised the money it needed to move the old Methodist church a half-mile, drop it in place on the hillside, and restore it. The effort cost $164,000—and thousands of hours in volunteer labor. While half of the money came from insurance, another half was raised by the congregation through venison suppers, bake sales, and hundreds of letters requesting grants and private donations.

Bill Finger, who spent summers in Lincoln as a boy and moved to the town permanently in 1974, recalls, “That fire galvanized the church and the community. A lot of people still feel it was an act of God that in the long run brought a lot of people together.”

The congregation completed the restoration of the church in 1983, and, motivated by what Paul and Wanda Goodyear's daughter Linda Norton describes as “the desire to give something back,” a second restoration project was begun. A group of parishioners raised money to buy two houses across the street from the church, one on the verge of collapse, and convert them to use as affordable housing for the community's elderly. Today, the housing complex consists of ten separate apartments in three buildings, all of which look like well-kept private homes.

That project cost $250,000—not including volunteer carpentry, wallpapering, and painting—and transformed the four corners that comprise Lincoln center into the sort of idyllic picture postcard that entices advertising executives and unit trust traders away from New York.

   

Cynthia Price's nightmare—waking up to find the barns next door replaced by a development—could happen. But it's not likely. The town has safeguards to prevent such things. With the exception of the apartments for the elderly, the town does not allow new homes to be constructed on lots smaller than one acre.

But as the farmers sell off their land, there is no question that houses do appear. Ivis and Stewart Masterson farmed in South Lincoln for three decades before calling it quits in 1968. At one point they owned 275 acres. Today they own less than two. “We started selling off the land thirty years ago, and people started building houses,” Ivis says. “There are so many more people now.” At least fourteen houses dot the land that was once the Masterson farm. Adjacent to that land is an eight-house development.

Although the first influx of out-of-state people was hippies, the second influx was young professionals who chose not to settle in cities. Flatlanders like my wife and me began arriving in the 1980s; many of them now commute to Burlington or Middlebury or Vergennes.

Karen Lueders and her husband, Jim DuMont, are both attorneys. She is from Boston, he is from New York City, and they are raising their three children in a farmhouse near land that until recently Norman Strickholm was maintaining as one of the two active dairy farms in Lincoln.

“Everything that happened to us here was touched by kindness,” Lueders says, recalling 1986, her family's first year in Lincoln. When part of the roof blew off their house one Christmas when they were gone, their neighbors immediately repaired it; when they failed to make arrangements to have their long driveway plowed before the first blizzard, Strickholm cleared the snow at no charge.

Lueders would take her young children and wander to the farm to watch Strickholm milk his Ayrshire cows. In 1991, Strickholm moved his herd to Colorado, where land is cheaper and where he thought dairying would be more profitable. “Norman's leaving was traumatic for our family,” Lueders says. “Just knowing he was out there milking the cows was a part of our life.”

Like Strickholm, Ivis Masterson farmed Lincoln's rocky soil, and she understands why none of her five children chose to continue the family's dairy tradition: “They knew the hardship of our lives. They knew there was little money. All five of the kids have a better life than we had.”

Although Masterson misses the quiet farm life, she appreciates that many newcomers contribute to the community: “I know there's an awful lot of young people out there who've come here and tied this place together the way we once did with the farms.” The Mastersons did not sell all of their land; they gave some of it to their children who have remained in town.

Four of the Mastersons' five children stayed in Lincoln, an important dynamic in a town bonded in part by multigenerational families. All of Donald and Beverly Brown's three sons have remained, as has Fletcher and Harriett Brown's daughter.

“Unlike suburbia, where there are whole neighborhoods of people the same age, there are a lot of different generations within each family still here in Lincoln,” Beverly Brown says. At any moment on a Sunday morning in church, it is possible for me to see a host of Browns: Jim and Judy, as they sing in the choir; Harriett, a deacon, passing the offering plate along the pews; Beverly, tracking down a cassette tape of the service so that the elderly who can't make it to church are able to hear what they missed; and brothers Fletcher and Donald, deep in conversation before the bells have rung and called them to their pews, discussing, perhaps, the spring sugar run.

I am always moved when I see the Browns together in church—more now than seven years ago, when I failed to understand the complex blood network that links one of Lincoln's first families. I never went to church in Brooklyn, and I started attending in Lincoln only when Fletcher Brown commented on the fact that my house and the church share the same driveway. Noting my unique proximity to the sanctuary—forty yards, closer than the parsonage—Fletcher said, in his wry and unmistakably understated voice, “Don't have much of an excuse not to go to church now, do you?”

Shame first brought me there, but fellowship and faith have led me to stay.

   

The farms may have left Lincoln, but the sense of community hasn't. There is no question that the town has changed, that the influx of new people has transformed a once self-contained rural community into something vaguely suburban. Each weekday morning, a lot of Lincoln winds its way down the road that milk tankers once took, and I wouldn't be surprised to find a stoplight someday where the road to Lincoln meets the road to Burlington.

Clearly the town lost something when it lost its farms, but sometimes I'm not sure it lost anything more substantial than cows. That sounds glib, but it may also be true. Alice Leeds teaches fifth and sixth grade at the elementary school. She has taught in rural communities in the South; she has taught in midtown Manhattan. Inspired this spring by the case of the Chicago parents who left their two young children home alone while they took a Caribbean vacation, Leeds devoted class time to the ethical issues of leaving children unsupervised. What her students told her surprised her.

“Most of the kids—two-thirds—said they're never scared when they're home alone,” Leeds says. “People feel responsible for each other here, and the kids understand that Lincoln is their place. They're comfortable here, they feel safe here.”

If I worried for Lincoln's soul, those concerns were eased at the funeral service this May for Tari Shattuck, a forty-one-year-old neighbor who died of leukemia. Shattuck was born in Paris and raised in Texas. She arrived in Lincoln in 1972, a Democrat in a Republican hill town. Among the women and men who spoke at her service—at which every seat was filled and some mourners had to view the eulogy on video monitors set up in the Sunday-school classrooms—was Fred Thompson.

Thompson's Lincoln roots date back to the nineteenth century. He is a conservative Yankee, tough at town meetings, skeptical of most budget initiatives. He served with Shattuck on the town planning commission in the early 1980s, a fact I never knew until he began to speak at the front of the church on the day of her funeral.

“If any of you want to know how much Tari Shattuck loved this town, how much she cared for all of you, go to the town clerk's office and take a look at the town plan she wrote,” Thompson said, and then his voice broke abruptly. He might have planned to say more, but if he did he changed his mind, and he started back to his seat. “A flaming liberal!” he said, shaking his head in mock disgust, and I saw some of her family smile through their tears.

I had found a seat in the choir loft before the service began, so I had the opportunity to see a lot of faces that afternoon: aging hippies with beards and bad neckties, some of the women in peasant skirts; elderly farmers wiping their eyeglasses; teachers from the local school; selectmen past and present; choir members sitting for once in the pews. I saw Goodyears and Nortons and Browns; I saw three generations of families scattered across the church like wildflower seeds.

I saw more of the town together than I've seen even at a town meeting. I saw Lincoln, once again, looking out for its own.

SOWING THE SEEDS
WITH A LITTLE SPROUT

IN THE NEXT
two weeks, I will plant the seeds for my snow peas. In soil rich in compost I will mold beds from dark earth, and into those beds I will tuck the small light green—khaki-colored, really—marbles that with any luck will be robust, flowering plants soon after Memorial Day.

It is the peas that come first in this garden. I plant them with my hands and one tool: a hoe I purchased at a lawn sale eight years ago for exactly one dollar.

That day when snow peas go into the ground is one of my favorite days of the year, an hour-long chore that I extend—methodically, but joyfully—into a two-hour ritual. It is, for me, my own personal May Day.

It is not the May Day of labor rallies—although gardening is certainly about labor, and the fruits and vegetables thereof—but the May Day that celebrates something more primal. Rebirth. Renewal. The reassurance that we have survived another winter, no small accomplishment here in Vermont.

That's why I use few tools and no gloves: I want to be, literally, in my garden. I want to feel dirt on my hands.

Some years, my peas may go into the ground as early as today, April 24; some years, I may have to wait until Mother's Day. My May Day is hostage to climate, not calendar.

This spring, the ritual will be especially meaningful. For the first time I will have a child with me, a little girl who will be a few weeks short of six months when I plant. The ritual this year will feel different because I will have with me an audience of one, sitting in something called a Summer Seat: a canvas chair with a back designed to support a small baby's back and spine.

During my own private May Day last year my wife was pregnant, but the distance between expectation and parenthood was as incomprehensible as the chasm that exists between a seed and a plant. I am always amazed at the way the seeds I grasp in one closed fist can become a flowering row of bushes thirty feet long and three feet high.

In my fantasy, the ritual will begin this year not with the moment I tear open a packet of seeds, but when I place my daughter in her chair at the edge of the garden. In my mind's eye, one of her hands is in her mouth, the other is pulling at the cuff of her sweater. Her feet, in tiny corduroy slippers, touch the grass.

She watches me as I work, her eyes wide, and because she is watching I may decrease the time the ritual takes—a small concession to an attention span that is short. But it is also possible that this first planting may take even longer, as I pause to explain to her exactly what I'm doing, placing her on one of my knees as I show her dirt and seed and hoe.

My parents never gardened, and so I'm sometimes surprised that it has become for me such a passion. I like vegetables, but it is the act of gardening itself that I love. I have no idea if my daughter will share this interest, if she, too, will derive satisfaction from planting and watering and pulling the damned from the ground so that the chosen may prosper. On one level, I hope that she does.

But on another level, I know if she gardens with me my May Days will become clouded with the annual recognition that she is growing up and I am growing old. Last year she was in utero, this year she is in a Summer Seat. Next year she will be walking, and the year after that she may want to help: How many seeds can a two-and-a-half-year-old hide in her fist?

I expect I will learn. And I know I will be moved.