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I'm from a little town in a little state. Hinesburg, Vermont. Nothing that Google Satellite has ever been able to identify. My little street was Silver Street, and it was my years here that my head was filled with secret paths leading to hidden hideouts, goblins, and the mysteries of bumblebee hill. You had to have quite an imagination if you grew up in Vermont; there were no neighborhoods with kids to play with, and I had the pleasure of having only two TV channels... both were fuzzy. I used to play "Ms. Adventure!" with a little twig (aka, my "wand") and roam around the woods trying to find something cool; the best I came up with was slugs.Our neighbor was Harold, one of the friendliest old men you will ever come across. Even when I was that young, I still was able to appreciate how nice he was. He still lives in that old, green house to this day. My dad used to hit golf balls out in the front yard, and Harold never said a word about them coming onto his property. He's a good man. His front yard was filled with lilac trees and at the time, it was the sweetest most wonderful scent I had ever come across.
I had my very own raspberry bush, and it was always an exciting trip to go pick the berries in the late summertime. We also grew carrots and tomatoes, and squash and pumpkins in the fall. Everyone in town just about bought their pumpkins from 254 Silver Street; we'd leave out empty coffee cans at the end of our long gravel driveway and collected the money for the gourds on the trust factor. Even if there were only a handful of dimes and nickels, it was so exciting to me to make what seemed to be a small fortune.
Summer in Vermont was also when my dad would take us for rides in the back of the pickup truck up the street to the local diner for Creamies (aka, soft-serve ice cream). Rainbow sprinkles were my staple; my teddy bear Snowball would get a taste occasionally if I was feeling generous.
In the peak of summer (the whole two months that it was actually "hot"), we would go to my Aunt and Uncle's house at Lake Iroquois. It sounds like it would be far away, but it was just a quick little drive across town. We'd go out on the motorboat, and I'd sit in the seats in front of the driver; the boat would go up on it's side and I thought that was the definition of freedom. When you get to the other side of the lake, you can see the old 1960s camps and docks that my dad would play at when he was a kid. It's weird to think of "Good Golly Miss Molly" playing as he's jumping off into the water with all of his cousins; all the people I know to be in their 50s and 60s today. It's hard to fathom that we've all experienced childhood.
In the winter, there was no such thing as "snow days" unless there was a blizzard outside. We'd pack our snow clothes up every night, and lug them to school every day. My classmates and I would roll down the snow-covered hills for recess every afternoon, and then come back to our classrooms as red and purple as mixed berries. With the size of my cheeks back then, I looked like an oompa loompa.
As a class project, we'd go collect and measure the sap from the tree sitting outside my kindergarten classroom. I had the same teacher from K through 2nd grade. Mrs. Barber. We wrote letters back and forth once or twice a year after I moved to North Carolina, but I surprised her about 4 years ago when I went back to visit. She just screamed "JESSICA!!!!!" a moment after she saw me. I guess teachers really can imagine their little students growing into adults.
Fieldtrips usually always involved walking to our destination, whether it was the town library, going to visit the fire department, or walking up to the sugar house to see maple syrup being made. It seemed like a journey to get there back then, but it was probably only a mile away up the hill in the center of town. It's still there today, and is always closed up when it's off-season; you can peak in though and see all the empty buckets ready for fall to come again.
So many times a year, we would go on our hikes up Camel's Hump... one of the closest mountains. Every time I visit, I try to make my way up there. I can't sprint up the rocks like I used to, but I am reminded of how hard of a climb it is, yet how gratifying it is to finally reach the top. Words can't describe the view and the feeling up there. One time we met a man who was hiking nonstop through all of New England, and this was his lunch destination for the day. He'd sleep wherever he could find a dry place to pitch his tent. He looked so weathered, but you could tell from his face that he had seen some really beautiful things. I questioned whether or not I could hold up doing that. I'd like to think I could.
That's me on my last trip up there. I miss it. Have you ever found one place that recenters you when you're there? Whether it puts things in perspective or just rejuvenates your spirit? This is it for me. I feel a little chipped away each year I stay away; life has too many distractions to take time out for this, and I need to start ignoring them. I will always be a little Green Mountain girl.
