Winter/Spring 2023

“The eagle in the sky does not knowThethat those on the ground are looking at him.” Cracker Barrel

Volume XLII, Number I

Standard Rate U.S. Postage Paid Wilmington, VT 05363 Permit No. 6

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~ Yoruban proverb ~

Publication of Chimney Hill Owners Assoc., Inc.

Where eagles dare • From the world to Whitingham • Love for Vermont A poet, a horse, and an inn • A humdinger of a story • Tracks and scat Back where she started • A new pandemic sweeps the region One century, six generations • In the woods • Green gold rush is on

Winter/Spring 2023

Produced by

The Deerfield Valley News

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An edition packed with terrific stuff Winter/Spring 2023 Randy Capitani...................Publisher Victoria Capitani......................G. M. Mike Eldred................... News Editor Ruth Hedberg................ Copy Editor Jessica Floyd.....................Advertising Zach Condon...................Advertising Raquel Smith............Graphic Design Larry Lynch...........................Delivery On the cover: Eagle photograph by Nicki Steel. Right: “Boyd Strong” design and image by Meghan Carrier.

Contributions from: Jill Adams, Angel Balch, Jason Barney, Sam Barney, Peter Barus, Deborah Stewart Canedy, Diane Chapman, Lauren Harkawik, Diane Lussardi, Nicki Steel, Harold Wilkinson The Cracker Barrel owned by the Chimney Hill Owners Association and published by Vermont Media Publishing Co., 795 Route 100, Wilmington, publisher of

(802) 464-3388 • dvalnews.com

Welcome to the 2023 winter/spring edition of The Cracker Barrel. Once again, this issue is packed with local history, personal recollections and observations, and some fun things to do. We also welcome back some favorite contributors and a couple of new writers as well. Jill Adams makes her first contribution to The Cracker Barrel, writing about the 100th anniversary of the Boyd Family Farm in Wilmington. It’s somewhat fitting that Adams, herself a member of a historic farming family here in the valley, looks back on the history of the Boyds. Their story is much like her own family’s tale, but different at the same time. We hope readers like Jill’s writing and we welcome her to the family of contributors. Speaking of family, meet Sam Barney. Regular readers may recognize the last name, as his father is long-time contributor Jason Barney. Sam gives us a fun piece on why he loves Vermont. It’s hard to argue with his reasons, since we love Vermont too. Sam and Jason also continue the lineage of familial contributors to The Cracker Barrel. As for Jason Barney, he checks in for this edition with a look at some folks who are taking advantage of the great green rush taking in place in Vermont. We’re talking, of course, about legalized cannabis. Check out Jason’s story on a northern Vermont couple taking a risk and living out their dream. It’s heady stuff. Lauren Harkawik continues to show why she’s such a wonderful writer. She found an interesting subject, the much-accomplished Karen Hein, and tells her story in personal and engaging

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way. Harkawik’s writing is storytelling at its finest. Angel Balch likes to convey what’s going on in the world around her home. In a previous edition, it was all about turkeys. This time around, it’s the humble hummingbird that is the apple of Balch’s eye. Peter Barus once again amazes readers with his personal history. He writes about colorful personalities Aunty Bar, Ma Jenks, and the great poet Robert Frost as if they just dropped by for afternoon tea. What a trove of stories that family has. Personal and family history also come to bear with two more contributors to this edition. Harold Wilkinson recollects how he grew up in the woods of the south, learning to track animals, and how he put that to good use here in Vermont. Deborah Stewart Canedy reminisces about growing up in Wilmington with her logger father and the times spent outdoors in the local hills and forests. Nature photographer Nicki Steel once again amazes us. This time it is the eagles who nest near Harriman Reservoir. Steel’s imagery is simply stunning. Long-time contributor Diane Lussardi writes about the hottest sport going right now and how it has become so popular. Finally, Diane Chapman returns to the pages of The Cracker Barrel with a touching piece about coming home. Welcome back, Diane. We’re so happy to see you in these pages again. This edition wouldn’t be what it is without our great staff, wonderful writers, and terrific advertisers. And as always, thanks to the Chimney Hill team and directors for their continued support. Enjoy!

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From the eye of the spiral Lauren Harkawik

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first met Karen Hein in late 2022, at The Cup and Saucer in Wilmington. I was there to interview her about a recent trip to Liberia for a potential newspaper story for The Deerfield Valley News. By the end of that meeting, I knew two things. One: I wanted to write about Karen. Two: her story wasn’t so much a short news story as it was a swirling narrative. One that pushed out from a center and then back in toward it. A spiral, if you will. But more on spirals later. Karen is many things. A medical doctor. An administrator. A mother, a wife. A changer of systems. “I’ve always been this sort of visionary, ‘Let’s change the world’ type of person,” she told me. She believes the best place from which to forge change is from within, and so she’s gone in: to communities abroad; to a juvenile detention health center; to the CDC in pursuit of funding to anticipate and treat adolescent HIV; to the Senate Finance Committee; to the National Academy of Sciences; to the Green Mountain Care board. I quickly observed that Karen has a way of speaking that oozes enthusiasm, both for what she’s talking about and who she’s talking to. Though I was there to interview her, she started by asking me questions about my life — my kids’ ages, what’s happening in their worlds. I could tell she wasn’t just being polite. Her eyes lit up with each new detail I shared. That would later come as no surprise to me. It is my impression, having been met by Karen, that

Karen Hien at her farm in Whitingham, surrounded by her cashmere goats. Photo courtesy of the author.

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she is open not only to meeting new people, but to all of what those people may offer her artful element in the house they shared, which Ralph designed and built. It’s clear in by way of knowledge, experience, and feeling. She’s a witness of people, of communities, talking to Karen that although Ralph is no longer in our physical world, he is an active and of what they create. part of Karen’s. The story Karen was at The Cup and Saucer to tell me began and ended in Liberia. Ralph received a cancer diagnosis in 2003. At the time, the couple had been in She went to Zorzor, Liberia, in the late 1960s as a medical student, where she worked at what Karen calls a “commuter marriage,” with one of them in DC and one in New York the Esther Bacon School of Nursing and Midwifery, a community hospital founded by City (who was in which city actually swapped at a point; whoever was in DC got the Esther Bacon, whom Karen lived with. Esther would die a couple of years later of Lassa dog). With the diagnosis, they decided it was time for them to be together full time and fever. The hospital was destroyed in the 1990s in the Liberian Civil War; it has since grounded in Whitingham. Ralph fought and beat the cancer. been rebuilt. Karen returned to it recently, alongside her friend Joe Wiah, who grew up “He had a lousy prognosis, and he outlived his surgeon and oncologist,” Karen told in Liberia, left during that war, and is now the director of the Ethiopian Community me. In the years that followed, Karen and Ralph traveled the world, not as tourists, but Development Council Inc. in Brattleboro. as witnesses of people, changers of systems. Then, in 2011, Ralph began to show signs of In between her trips to Liberia, Karen had a range of visionary jobs, going into the dementia. center of the spaces I’ve already listed. She changed the way existing systems ran and Karen talks a lot about circles, and, more specifically, about spirals. There’s a quote defined how ones yet to be created would run. All of her work is, in some way, related to she references often. It’s from a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. health and medicine, but it goes deeper than the scientific. She frames her beliefs about “I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the sky. I may not complete medicine through the One Health concept, which the CDC describes as a “collaborathe last one, but I give myself to it.” tive, multisectoral, and transdisciplinary approach—working at the local, Karen says she always saw her life as a spiral that was pushing outregional, national, and global levels—with the goal of achieving optimal ward — that it was in her to reach the far corners of humanity, where she “When Ralph got health outcomes recognizing the interconnection between people, anicould affect change. At the onset of Ralph’s dementia, though, that spiral dementia, that mals, plants, and their shared environment.” reversed course. Karen has traveled to places many of us will not be able to reach in “When Ralph got dementia, that spiral metaphor was an inward spispiral metaphor was our lifetimes, and she has allowed those places to work their way into her ral,” she says. “It was a deep, deep exploration of intimacy and connection an inward spiral.” way of being. Liberia was one. Alaska, where her late husband Ralph grew with Ralph, with friends, with family, and with community.” up, was another. Mongolia was another still. Mongolia made such an imThat the spiral turned inward doesn’t indicate a loss of Karen’s pression on Karen and Ralph that they erected a Mongolian yurt in their connection to the wider world, though. The story that Karen had come yard in Whitingham and adopted a herd of cashmere goats. Karen says it was their way to The Cup and Saucer to tell me, about her trip to Liberia, is also part of that inward of bringing a piece of Mongolia here. I visited Karen at her house recently, and it isn’t spiral. She took that trip with Joe Wiah, whom she is working closely with here. Karen just the goats or the Mongolian yurt that give you the feeling that, by being there, you’ve founded and continues to work with the Deerfield Valley New Neighbors Project, which traveled to another place. Her home is room after room of relics, each of which carries a is in the process of helping several Eritrean families relocate to the Deerfield Valley. story. They’re reflections of the places she’s been, the people she’s met, and the ways in Karen initially met Joe through Ralph. Joe was one of Ralph’s caregivers in his final which those people and places are a part of who she is. In meeting her, you’re meeting years. But a friendship blossomed between Karen and Joe. This past fall they traveled to them. Liberia together, where Karen met Joe’s family in Monrovia, and where she showed Joe Ralph was Karen’s second husband. The first was Mike Hein. She talks about Mike where she used to work in Zorzor. with the understated admiration one may expect toward a close relative. Mike died in That trip, and the way she’s now able to work with Joe to help refugees find a home 1998 and I took note, when looking him up, that his obituary listed Karen and Ralph here in Vermont, gives Karen the unshakeable feeling that she remains in the eye of the as family members he was leaving behind. That kind of familial acknowledgement isn’t spiral. something you always see after a first marriage dissolves. “I did the outward spiral, and now I’m still very much in the inward spiral,” she “We just grew apart,” Karen says of Mike. Of Ralph, she calls him her “soul mate says. “But ironically, they’ve come together. We’re in the circle. It’s all happening here husband,” and her tone when she says it is almost giddy, like the love is new. I’m struck, in southern Vermont. Joe is here. The refugee program is here. I’ve got my yurt, and my after visiting with Karen for several hours, that when I think of Ralph later, I’m recalling cashmere goats. It’s been an amazing outward journey, but in this inward journey and him as though I met him. I never did. Ralph died in 2020. But Karen talks about him in the two coming together, I feel like I’m in this amazing growth spurt. I’m 79, and I’ve with detail, often in the present tense. “That’s Ralphie,” she says, eyeing a particular never felt so alive. I’m just learning, learning, learning.”

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I love Vermont Sam Barney

to bloom. I love it for June, when insects chirp and on a clear night, there is no better view of the stars. I love it for July, for family gatherings, and for those unpleasant periods where the air gets much too sticky. (I love air-conditioning, too.) I love it for August, love it for a variety of reasons. Vermont is a wondrous place, full of life and love. It is where the heat turns dry and the streams run low. a place of peace. Vermont is its own little corner of the world, independent of many I love it for September, when the first autumn breezes whirl every which way, and a of the great issues which plague other portions of the planet. I love Vermont for its few rebellious leaves show hints of the colors they will soon display. I love it for October, short summers, lush and green. I love it for the beautiful foliage we experience during for the fall harvest, when golden fields of wheat and pumpkin autumn, and for its rolling hills and clear-water streams. patches abound. I love it for November, when the cold returns I love it for its winters, frigid as they may be, and for its in full force, and hats and gloves are dug out of storage at long springs, though the melting snows which accompany the rising last. I love it for December, for Christmas, even for the return temperatures muddy my boots far too often for my liking. of the snow. I love it for the sight of fathers tossing baseballs with their I love Vermont for its covered wooden bridges. I love it for sons, for the eggnog we drink in the cold, and for honeybees. its farms, and for its historic homes. I love it for its mountains, I love it for its historical sights, for the carving of pumpkins in for its valleys, for its rivers … Hell, I love it for its pinecones. the fall, and for the chopping-down of Christmas trees. I love it Vermont is one of the only places in the world where the for chicken coops, dairy farms, cattle ranges, and old red barns. largest city around is home to just 50,000 people, and I think I love it for steeple churches, and for northeastern accents. I that is beautiful. I love the small-town nature of our state. love it for foxes, for bird feeders, and for foraging squirrels. I love Vermont because it is home, because it has shaped I love it for the fish that swim in its many ponds, and for me, because it is one of my very favorite places on earth. If a quiet summer boat rides on Lake Champlain, where the deep friend asked me if they should move here, my answer would blue water ripples and sparkles and the sky shines a brilliant turcome with alacrity, and it would be a definite, resounding yes. quoise. I love it for its winter skiing, and for the deer that—on Vermont is wonderful. It is peaceful. There is no place in the occasion—wander up my driveway, ready to bound away at a world more calm, more serene, more defined by ataraxic ambimoment’s notice. One of those deer once chased my cat; Rufus ence. was a hunter, and I have no doubt that he must have angered We should all appreciate what we have in Vermont. We the stag profusely to elicit such a reaction from the majestic should not take our state lightly. In Vermont, we are free of beast. war, of drought, of famine. We are sheltered from the horrors I love Vermont for its camping, for its wild nature, for its which countless folks around the world endure every day. We clean air and fields of corn. I love it for the plunk plunk of are allowed peace, and hourlong walks through the woods, and icicles at winter’s end, and for the miniscule hamlets of a few comfort. dozen buildings that seem to dot every part of the countryside. Maple sugaring is as Vermont as it gets. Sometimes, I think I forget to acknowledge just how amazI love the state for its cleanliness, for the dew that moistens Photo courtesy Dean B. Hall ing those things can be. lawn grass in the mornings, for the birds that chirp outside my Vermont is not perfect. It smells of cow dung far too often window, and for the soft sound of porch chimes when the wind picks up. for my liking, and I doubt us Vermonters will ever escape the “hippie” label we have reI love it for January, though I could do without the shoveling and icy roads. I love ceived. The ground can be much too slippery in wintertime, and that is to say nothing of it for February, when sap flows from frozen trees and maple syrup is made. I love it for the annoyance shoveling and raking leaves can be. In Vermont, you can sweat to death in March, when the last few real cold spells of winter have their stay, then fade away. I love summer, and catch the flu from coworkers who you dislike for no particular reason. You it for April, when the rains come and the cold truly dies for the next few months. can lose a garden to insects, and curse when your basement floods in spring. You might I love it for May, when the trees show their buds and kaleidoscope flowers begin be without power for some time when a storm hits. But in Vermont, you can live free. To my fellow Vermonters who read this, I challenge you to take a moment and appreciate the beauty of our state. Be grateful for your loved ones, for our frigid winters, for our countryside and fall corn mazes. Appreciate our mountains, our valleys, our farms, and our streams. As winter sets in and the cold winds come again, be thankful for the sight of snow on tree branches after a blizzard. When spring comes, appreciate flower petals and things turning green. In summer, smile at the sight of stars on a clear night. Laugh at drive-in movies you see in the evening, and sigh when you feel the gentle breeze on your face. Be grateful for the quiet moments. Smile when you hunt and fish, and be free. In fall, take your time carving your pumpkins, and visit your local corn maze when the opportunity presents itself. Enjoy the taste of pumpkin pie and the sight of colored leaves in the wind, and be thankful for all that you have when Thanksgiving rolls around. In winter, encourage your children to make snow angels. Maybe make some yourselves. Drink eggnog and sip hot cocoa by the fire and giggle when you open Christmas presents. Take goofy photos and bake Christmas cookies and make New Year’s resolutions. When the holidays are gone, settle into your beds and watch movies beneath mounds of thick blankets. Enjoy life. Don’t let the cold befoul your mood, even if it seeps into your bones. Beauty is fleeting, they say, but there is always beauty in Vermont. Appreciate your state, Vermonters. Ours is a gorgeous little corner of the world, and beauty such as we possess is very difficult to come by.

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Spring, and hummingbirds, are on the way Angel Balch

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fter a long and cold Vermont winter, many of us eagerly look forward to spring. We begin our transition from cold weather to warmer weather and make preparations for the changing of the season. Spring flowers will begin to peek their heads up, hibernating animals will awaken from their winter slumber, and buds will begin to sprout on the trees. Something else very far away from us though, is also beginning to makes it’s preparations for spring. The amazing hummingbird. These little “flying jewels” spend their winters in Mexico or Central America, but a few spend the cold months in Florida like some of our own Vermont “snowbirds.” The Northeast only has one species, which is the ruby throated hummingbird. It travels from Mexico or Central America, up the East Coast to as far away as Canada.This species is thriving and multiplying due to increased public interest and habitat. Those that have to travel the farthest begin their migration as early as mid-February or early March. These tiny birds have to travel thousands of miles. They feed heavily before they begin their 500-mile nonstop journey across the Gulf of Mexico. Once across the water, they will stop to feed for a few days and recuperate before continuing northward. There are a few notions out there about them hitching rides on geese but that is not true. They fly solo, low on the horizon, with no help, and return to the same place every year, just about the exact same time. A few hummingbird facts: Their brains are the largest of all birds in comparison with their body size. They can remember every route ever taken, every place they have fed in the past, every type of flower and when it blooms, and even recognize the people that feed them. I certainly assume (hope) they know me once they are here. Their tongues are very long and feathered at the end. This enables them to lick nectar up to 13 times per second and to reach deep into flowers. Hummingbirds are the only birds that cannot “walk.” They can perch but not use their feet to walk. However their flying abilities are remarkable. They can fly forward, backward, upside down, hover, and dive at incredible speeds. Their shoulder sockets are ball joints that enable their wings to rotate 180 degrees. This enables them to do their crazy acrobatics but also fly at 30 mph, dive at 200 mph, and beat their wings 70 times per second. How anyone has ever been able to record these figures I cannot fathom, but they have. Those of you who know me, know that I can be a bit passionate about birds - mainly turkeys and hummingbirds. I love my wild turkeys but I am totally fascinated by hummingbirds. My kids and husband make fun of my obsession, but other hummingbird lovers totally understand.

Hummingbirds begin their migration as early as mid-February or early March and travel thousands of miles while migrating north. Photos courtesy of the author. My compulsion begins as soon as I know their northward migration has begun. I begin to track their whereabouts on a site called Hummingbird Central. A map of the US and Caribbean plots the birds’ progression as people post their sightings along their routes. Hummingbirds fly 20 to 30 miles a day, so their final destination takes approximately a month or so. They have internal clocks that tell them when it is time to begin migration. Every year they begin their journey about the same day, follow the same routes, stop at the same places to feed and sleep overnight. Their routes only vary if storms impede their progress, and then they wait them out in safe locations or fly around them. Somehow these amazing little creatures can navigate from Mexico or Central America, all the way up to Canada and back, year after year. The migration map plots their progression and as they get closer, my excitement mounts and I get everything ready for their arrival. I keep a hummingbird journal that keeps track of the dates that they arrive, the dates they leave, the numbers of adults I have throughout the summer, if I have fledglings that year, names of the deck plants they prefer and any other necessary notes. All the hummingbird feeders and domed covers are taken out and cleaned well. New ones are purchased if needed, and I make sure I have plenty of sugar on hand to make nectar. My hummers normally arrive May 8, give or take a day although last year they arrived very early on April 26 and stayed longer. Feeders need to be put out two weeks before expected arrivals. You often get passing visitors that need to eat on their way up to Canada. By the time my birds arrive up here, they have been traveling for thousands of miles, have lost a good percentage of their body weight, and are very hungry and tired, so they need the feeders to help them replenish their energy needs. Because our weather in late April and early May can still be cold and flowers are not quite in bloom yet, I always buy a red potted geranium to put on our deck near the feeders so the birds will see them. Hummers are very attracted to red. The rest of my deck flowers will be purchased once the weather becomes warmer. Initially only two feeders will be hung. They are filled with homemade sugar water which is one part white sugar to four parts water. Do not, I repeat, do not use red-dyed purchased mix! The chemicals are bad for the birds and they do not need the red dye to be attracted to your feeders. Mix the sugar and water, microwave for one minute then let it cool. It is easiest to make a large batch and keep in the refrigerator to replenish them more readily, although sugar water needs to be at room temperature before being added to feeders. If their sugar water is too cold, it can shock them and lower their body temperature to dangerous

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levels. Weeks of watching and waiting, and conferring with another of my fanatic hummingbird friends ( you know who you are!), the conversation goes like this: “Have you seen anything yet?” “Not yet, have you?” “No. Do you see where they are on the map?” “Yes! they are in Massachusetts! They should be here soon!” “Let me know when you see one!” “Yes, you too!” Then, finally a male arrives! I excitedly tell my husband that one has arrived. But he just gives me “the look,” rolls his eyes, and says “Oh, here we go.” It is always the males who arrive first, usually two weeks before the females show up. Sometimes they are just passing through on their way up North, but sometimes they are my resident birds. Soon another male will arrive, and little by little the others will show up. Hummingbirds are very mean little creatures and fight constantly, but when they first arrive they are hungry and tired so they tolerate each other better than they will once they have recuperated. Eventually the females will begin to show up. Males have the hallmark ruby red throat (called a gorget) and very green, iridescent feathers. Females have no red throat, and are overall much duller in color. All of them feed nonstop once they arrive and are pretty complacent. Once they have arrived, my summer feeding area gets prepared and ready for the onslaught of birds that will be fighting each other for food. Normally we only have five or six permanent residents but last year was crazy. We had at least 30 of those little buzzing drones, feeding and fighting every day. More than we have ever had. I guess the word got out that my restaurant was five-star. I place two feeders hung high (out of bear and raccoon reach) in the front of the house. A large hanging petunia ( in reds and pinks) is hung by our front door. Four feeders are hung on the back deck, two high and two low. I purchase four large pots of Wendy’s Wish salvias, and two large pots of cape fuchsia to put on the deck near the feeders. Red, tubular flowers attract the most birds. When my flower guy sees me coming at the beginning of spring, he smiles and says “Ah, the hummingbird lady!” and knows immediately which plants to grab for me. I also hang a large pot of pink and red petunias next to the feeders. Hummers like to be able to eat while having some protection and places to hide, especially once they have many birds to compete with. Domes are put above my feeders to keep them shaded, rain- and ant-free. I make a large amount of sugar water and store it in a glass tea jar with a spigot for easy pouring. Several clean, empty feeders are put in a box by the back door so rotations are quick and easy. Feeders need to be cleaned and replaced every few days but when it gets very hot, they need to be changed much more often to prevent mold which can make the birds sick. Once the summer heat arrives, I open up a large patio umbrella and place it over the more exposed feeders and flowers. This helps keep down the number of times I have to change the sugar water. The preparation is done and so the ritual begins! Now that the permanent residents have arrived, they have a specific routine which dictates mine as well. I am an “early bird” and up by 5 am. My cats wake me, insisting to be fed. After the cats are fed, my two low-hanging feeders are put back outside, coffee is consumed, then dawn arrives and my birds begin descending upon the feeders. They are ravenous after a night of “torpor.” Hummingbirds have to eat every 15 minutes and keep a body temperature of about 105 degrees, so at night they go into a state of imposed hibernation. Their body temperature and heart rate reduce, they fluff their feathers, and find a protected branch to hang upside down to sleep on. Dawn arrives and they begin to shiver to heat up their body. It takes about 20 minutes for them to revive themselves but once they do, they immediately need to eat. This is when the feeding frenzy begins. My deck sounds and looks like a bee hive with these little birds buzzing, cheeping, and zipping around like crazy. There are many videos out there of hummingbirds all feeding together, but I could never understand that, because normally no more than one or two of my birds would feed at one time. They are vicious, territorial little things and don’t allow others to encroach on their food supply. Hummingbirds fight each other and can cause fatal injuries with their long, sharp beaks. Amazingly though, last summer I had SO many birds, that most times all my feeders and plants were fully occupied. Once the morning frenzy was over though, they went back to fighting and chasing each other. I always thought that if they spent less time fighting, they would expend less energy and not need to eat so much. But they don’t listen to me. Throughout the day, hummingbirds will stay nearby but venture out to feed on garden flowers and bugs in addition to the feeders. Flowers and insects are more nutritious than sugar water, but the water is a quicker and easier energy source so they need both. It is fiction that hummingbirds never sit still. They frequently perch on branches and feeders. My alpha males/females perch on feeder hooks to survey their domain and keep others from encroaching on their territory. If an interloper appears, they will dive bomb it to chase it away. Some will flee but others hide among the deck flowers to feed. Summers are short here in Vermont so at every opportunity I sit outside with a book Continued on page 10

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Keeping other animals away from feeders is a challenge Continued from page 9 after dinner to enjoy the warmth and observe my birds. As evening approaches, the birds get ready for their overnight torpor. Once again, they feed voraciously to sustain enough energy to get them through the night. They are laser-focused on feeding so this is the time when I will see fully occupied feeders and many birds zipping from flower to flower on the deck, oblivious of anything else. My husband tolerates my obsession, but is never very interested. I made him sit out one evening to observe though, and he was amazed. When I have had friends come to observe, they are amazed as well. To see and hear all these little creatures buzzing around your head, feeding, fighting, zipping around at high speeds, and hovering in front of your face ( hummingbirds are very curious and will observe your face) is really remarkable, and totally addicting to watch. As it gets dark though, and the hummers go away for the night, I have to bring in the low-hanging feeders. In the past, I used to wake up to find them totally empty of nectar. Sometimes they would be knocked to the ground. One evening I turned on the light and saw two very plump raccoons enjoying the nectar, so from that point on I had to remember to bring in those two every evening and then put them out very early the next morning. I would love to forgo those low ones entirely but the birds seem to favor their location because they are well protected by flowers. Bats and bears also love the sweet water, so it is important to put feeders in a location that other critters cannot get to. On more than one occasion we witnessed bears suck the feeders dry. Wasps and bees also love the nectar unfortunately. I learned to put out feeders that are all red with no yellow on them, and only buy red and pink flowers for the deck. Wasps and hornets are attracted to yellow and cannot see red. I have tried wasp/hornet traps but they do not work well. Putting a hanging plant with yellow flowers, far away from feeders can help keep those flying insects occupied and away from the others though. Wasps and hornets can be lethal to hummingbirds. One sting can kill them because of their diminutive size. If flying insects (even pesky flies) continually occupy feeders, hummingbirds will not come to them anymore. They are innately afraid of wasps and hornets. Last summer, keeping up with all my feeders was a full time job due to the number of birds I had and my compulsion to keep the feeders clean. Washing them and keeping ports free from mold (I have tiny brushes that are made specifically for that), constantly making up batches of sugar water, and making sure I got the feeders out early and in at night got to be very tiring by the end of summer. I won’t even discuss my worries about them when we would have to go away somewhere. Let’s just say our pet sitters had many notes left for them. So by the time fall begins and my hummingbirds are gearing up to leave, I am ready for them to go. It is always a sad time when they leave but also a relief. I had tracked their migration, watched my first one arrive followed by the others, observed their fascinating behaviors, witnessed the influx of many new fledglings (having so many females around meant there were numerous babies hatched that summer), and now they were getting ready to go. Once again they were feeding voraciously. Hummingbirds have to gain 40 - 60% of their weight to enable them to make their long journey. All my feeders were being filled twice a day now. Hummers know when to leave. It is thought that the diminishing daylight, fewer flowers and insects, and lower temperatures all trigger their migration. The adult males will leave first followed by adult females. Adolescent birds will stay as long as they can to fatten up and will be the last to leave. Amazingly, these new ones know when and where to go even though they have never done it before. Little by little my horde of 30-plus birds, dwindles to a few, then just one or two, until the last one finally flies off, which makes me sad. I leave one feeder up though. It is important to leave them up for two weeks after the last one is gone. Migrators from up north will need places to feed as they pass through on their way down south. So then, they are all gone. It is mid-September. I take down the remaining feeders at the end of the two-week period, clean and store them, and notate the last day a bird was seen. Then I breathe a big sigh of relief and wish my little feathered friends well on their long journey to warmer climates. I now look forward to relaxing and not worrying about any more birds. Wait, what’s this? The turkeys just showed up?!

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Recalling Aunty Bar, Ma Jenks, and R Frost Peter Barus

T

his is from an unpublished memoir by my late aunt, Anne Saxton, RN, who spent much of her childhood in Vermont, and practiced medicine with her husband George in Brattleboro, with an emphasis on women’s health. They were not expensive or bothered with complicated paperwork. They were often called in the small hours, in terrible weather, making house calls, delivering babies, you name it. Anne once told me there was an IRS man who could not believe that a doctor would charge patients an apple pie, or some firewood, or a plucked chicken, and began to bother George. Then one night the phone rang, and George had to go to the emergency room. It seems a man had been in a car accident and sustained a serious injury to his hand. When he got there, they recognized each other. George said: “This won’t hurt a bit.” There is an old inn in West Dover that once belonged to her aunt, my great-aunt, Barbara Simonds, or as we knew her, Aunty Bar. As a kid I thought she was a silly old dingbat, but eventually learned that she was trying to heal the centuries-old schism between the English and Roman churches. She was called an “ecumenical prophetess” among various upper-echelon clergy in England and Rome, and I was told she had gotten the Archbishop of Canterbury to go fishing one afternoon with the Pope. Eventually

Poet Robert Frost visited Ma Jenks in her last days. Mary Jenkins had been a cook who became a good friend of Frost. Photos courtesy of the author. much of her 10-room library was brought home and installed in the basement of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, in New York City, along with her mortal remains. She lived a full century. In the 1930s she lived in West Dover, and my mom, her sister Anne, and their other sister and brother used to stay with Aunty Bar at her farm, “Goodstay.” Anne remembered how Bar acquired the old West Dover Inn: “The town had said, ‘Miss Simonds, would you buy the inn before it falls down?’ And she said, ‘I will buy the inn if there are no back taxes on it and I will buy the materials if all the village will come and give me a work day and we will strip the walls and paint.’ And so I learned how to use a scythe (Note: this would have been under the tutelage of a Mr. Bogle) and cleaned up all around the building, a beautiful old inn right smack

in the middle of town. It had a spring dance floor so after it was over the next week we had a square dance there and it was great fun and if you were sitting on a spring dance floor and you put your hands over the edge of the bench when people rocked back you’d get your fingers pinched.” A “spring” dance floor was so constructed as to take the synchronized weight of a large crowd without catastrophic failure. They can still be found today in some old community buildings, such as grange halls. It is exciting to be downstairs when the dance is in full swing. Terrifying, actually. Mr. Bogle taught the kids how to scythe properly (and they passed it on to me). There were two other stories about this Mr. Bogle. We still have a bookshelf

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Robert Frost with a horse and a child. The child was Ann Morrison, daughter of Frost’s assistant Kay Morrison, whose husband Ted ran the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference at the time. with two small square panels glued to the ends, with what look like pheasants carved in bas-relief that my mother told me she had watched Mr. Bogle carve, “by hand.” The other I heard from Aunty Bar, more than 50 years later. “The people in town came for a work day, to clean up the building. And upstairs it had an indoor outhouse!” Aunty Bar was a dignified Victorian lady, but bravely soldiered on: “The shaft went down to the cellar, to a pit at the bottom. And it had never been cleaned! It was full all the way up to the second floor! Mr. Bogle came with a shovel and a wheelbarrow, and dug it all out,” and she added with great specificity, “ by hand!” This would have been around 1935. Mom would have been 14 then. They had been living in Putney, where my granddad had been co-head of Putney School for a couple of years. They then moved to Goodstay while working out what they would do next. Aunt Anne picks up the story: “My dad and my brother redid one of the outbuildings so that it was dormitories upstairs; it was a girls’ dorm, a boys’ dorm, and mum and dad slept down at the end. There was an outdoor shower from a brook. The pipe came from a little sort of a pond up the hill, you know, dammed up; it came all the way across the field. In the middle of the day, you had about five minutes of warm water if the sun was up, and then it was the temperature of the brook, which was pretty chilly. My auntie used to take a cold shower every morning. The shower was made of two pie plates put together. She’d hammered holes in one side before it was soldered together. She would turn that on, and she would sing—she couldn’t sing worth a dime, but she would sing, “Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, oh come, ye oh, come to Bethlehem.” Oh my goodness, I can still hear her! “We all used to get kittens when we first went up because there was a farmer whose cat had kittens and so each of us would have a kitten at the beginning of the year and they’d all go back to the farmer in the fall, come October. We didn’t have a telephone or electricity, so we just had water by the grace of God and gravity, again. If anybody wanted to get ‘hold of us they’d telephone the store in the village, and they could telephone the farm up on the hill—opposite—who would go hang a blackboard out on a white barn and then I would get on the pony and ride down to the village and get the message and bring it back up.” It was during those years that Robert Frost appeared. At first he boarded at Goodstay; then he bought the Homer Noble farm in Ripton. He played softball with the kids (my uncle and aunts among them). That was probably when my aunt taught him how to kill porcupines. She got an ax and a pitchfork, and handed them to Frost, and said, “I’ll go underneath and chase him out. Then you pin him to the ground with the pitchfork and cut his head off with the ax.” I don’t believe they actually followed through on that procedure. Eventually my mother worked for him doing light housekeeping, and took care of the Morrison children. Mom helped him buy a horse. “We had a wonderful cook, Ma Jenks, she used to cook for the Canadian lumbermen,” Aunt Anne recalled. “She would cook for all the family and we ate breakfast in what was called the sidling, the old machine shed that had been built so we could sleep there, and then my auntie and her elder brother and his three daughters would sleep in the big house. But they liked much better to be over playing with me in the other place, which was sometimes good and sometimes not, as far as they were concerned, because I led the kids astray, taught them things they shouldn’t know.” On my birthday Mom would make marble cake. I liked the part where the light and dark batters were “folded” with a spatula and a graceful twist of the wrist. It’s all in knowing when to stop, so it looks sort of marbly. It was a recipe she got from Mrs. Jenkins. She and Frost met at Goodstay, and became lifelong friends. Years later, when I was about 9 years old, we went to see him, I think it was in Ripton. A little house in the woods. Frost came out and laughed, dancing from foot to foot on his toes as he greeted the children in a gentlemanly manner. There were bumblebees in the bushes, and he showed my brother and me how to zap them with a rubber band (no bees were injured for this story). There was an old horse out to pasture. Mom was pleased and surprised. “That’s my old horse. He must be 16!”

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With a wing span of about six feet eagles make impressive flyers.

After mating the pair will sit together for a few minutes

Feeding the fast-growing eaglets is a full time job. Eaglets are about one month old in this photo. Photos courtesy of the author.

I

As the eaglets grow the adults spend more time off the nest but are often keeping a watch from a nearby tree.

Eagles have made their home at local reservoir

n the 1920s Mountain Mills, at the end of Fairview from the wind. Sometimes the eagle pair are perched way Avenue in Wilmington, was a thriving town, complete up on the ridge line and other times they are bringing with a school, homes, a post office, and huge sawmills. sticks to the nest. I can tell when they are about to mate Now it is the home of the Harriman Reser(which they do multiple times) as there are voir bald eagles which, for eight years, have distinctive calls. The mating is quick and Nicki Steel been successfully raising eaglets. efficient - no romance with those two! Then We are so fortunate to have a pair of nesting bald eathey sit next to each other just for a minute or two before gles in town, especially one that can be so easily observed one flies off. And then there’s the day when I come and while, at the same time, not disturbing the birds. Over there is only an eagle head barely visible above the nest. the years, an informal group of eagle fans has developed That means eggs have been laid and the 35-day countdown and sometimes there are 10 or more people watching the to hatching has begun! action. We share stories and information while getting to April through May know our neighbors and watching the family grow. Perhaps There’s not much to see while the eggs are being inthis is the year you join in to watch the action. cubated, but I love to watch the parents switch egg-sitting. I started going to watch and photograph them in 2017 There is nothing so majestic as an eagle taking off and and now each year I follow their progress from nest repair flying right over you as it heads out across the lake. Toward in February to when the eaglets fledge in July. They have the end of April, I notice a switch in behavior as the eggs predictable routines but every year I observe new things as (usually two) hatch. The parents start peering down into I learn more about our national bird. the nest with the look of adoration and surprise. It beMid-February through March comes a waiting game for about two weeks until I can see Bundled up against the cold I snowshoe down to the the tops of the eaglets’ heads. Is it one? Two? One year I lake and set up my tripod in a little hollow to protect me thought it was only one until I got home and examined my

photos. Yup, a second “bobblehead” was just barely visible. June and July Even though I’ve watched the process for a few years now I still cannot believe how fast those bobbleheads grow. They go from egg to being as big as the adults and flying in about 2 1/2 months. And, boy, can they eat! It’s so much fun to watch a parent fly in with a big fish. One time I even saw the parent take off, fly down the lake, and pluck a gray squirrel out of the water (yes, squirrels can swim) and bring it back to feed the eaglets. As the eaglets get ready to fly they climb higher and higher in the trees, flapping their wings more and more. Now, almost every evening the eagle fans are coming to watch and hoping to see the first flight. Once I was lucky enough to see that flight. It jumped off the branch, had a second or two of free-fall, flapped madly, and then soared in a small circle before returning to the safety of its nest. As each day passes the eaglets venture a little farther - it’s an exciting time but I know that my frequent eagle-watching time is drawing to a close - until next year. If you are on Facebook and want to follow my regular eagle-posting please go to Nicki Steel Photography.

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Each year, late February into March, the pair adds sticks and grass to the nest.

The eagles often go down to the water to drink or bathe.

The two fledged eaglets soar over their nest as they learn to fend for themselves.

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The Cracker Barrel

Winter/Spring 2023

Tracks and scat in Vermont Harold A. Wilkinson

A

s long as I can remember I have been interested in the flora and fauna in the forest, fields, ponds, and streams which have surrounded me. Growing up in a small town in North Carolina. I had easy access to an abundant variety of habitats were easily accessible. Earning merit badges as a Boy Scout added incentive, since these often involve learning about wild animals, plants, insects, etc. After my wife and I built our vacation home in southern Vermont, having two sons to bring there with us added new incentive to observe local tracks and animal scat. These pastimes provided a chance to be active with my sons both in winter and in summer: tracks in winter and scat in summer. I assume my readers are more familiar with observing animal tracks in the snow than they are in observing animal scat, essentially an activity for when the ground is bare.

Rabbit tracks in the snow As my young sons and I roamed the snow-covered fields and forest near our home we became familiar with a variety of tracks. Feline tracks are notable in that the claws are retracted while walking, whereas claws are extended in the other carnivores, including bears. The hoofprints of deer are obviously smaller than those of moose. Large birds, such as turkeys, may walk, but the much smaller “bird foot” prints of songbirds indicate that they usually hop. Rabbits leave a characteristic hopping pattern, with large hind-foot prints and smaller fore-foot prints. The small prints of chipmunks and field mice show that they often hop about, and the latter often dive into tunnels below the snow. Fox tracks are distinctive in that uniquely the paw prints are nearly in a straight line. (Whether that had any relevance to the development of the dance step the foxtrot, I do not know.)

Rabbit scat: a pile of pellets What is animal scat, you might ask, and why could it possibly be interesting? “Scat” is a polite, or naturalist’s, term for feces. Just as animals leave distinctive tracks when walking in the snow, animal scat varies depending on the species and leaves evidence that some representative of that species has been in that location. Furthermore, just as one can get a rough estimate of when the animal was in the vicinity by noting the freshness of the snowfall and the tracks therein, the freshness of the scat allows rough dating. (No, the freshness is NOT determined by the “sniff test” of how pungent the specimen might be, but rather by assessing its dryness by observation.) We usually identified scat during our prolonged summer stays in Vermont. Deer are fairly large animals, so why do they leave small pellets? Rabbits leave even smaller pellets, usually plenty of them (perhaps the large number is related to their sex lives?). Most

Rabbit scat, above, is distinguished by the small size of the animal’s pellets. Left, rabbit tracks in the snow leave a distinctive pattern. Photos courtesy of the author. canines leave elongated, cylindrical deposits, rounded at both ends, but the deposits of skunks and foxes are tapered at one or both ends. Bear scat is distinctive because it nearly always contains visible seed from raspberries or wild fruit, while scat from other carnivores may contain hair. Two discoveries stand out. One August morning while I was still lounging in my pajamas a neighbor lady excitedly knocked on our door. She was holding a small paper sack. A few nights earlier, her husband had been less than enthusiastic as I effused over scat at cocktail hour. The treasure she presented was obviously bear scat, and an impressively large specimen. “Imagine, this big creature was prowling around our front steps as we slept!’ In fact earlier that week we had not only noticed bear scat in our driveway, but we had been awakened when a bear climbed a small elderberry tree near our bedroom window, then came crashing down onto the firewood pile. One especially memorable observation occurred when we were walking along a snow-covered trail deep in the forest. Crossing our trail was a row of very large (about 4-inch diameter) round four-toed paw prints without claw marks. These were obviously feline prints. Only one animal in New England leaves prints like this: the cougar or mountain lion.

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Coming home painting on that snowy afternoon and it was a friend of ours who is a realtor. I was dumbfounded when she said to me, “Do you want to sell the farm?” And so it happened! There was a young couple who had fallen in love with the place and wanted to ow do I begin to explain the love for an 1840s farmhouse that I moved into in buy it – two people with a passion and as crazy as Lenny and I. They were not strangers 1993? It was a long time ago and that house has been in my heart ever since. I to us because Bryan had stored his boat and his sports car in the barn for the last couple was newly divorced with three children when I first saw it. My son was 13 and of years. Bryan and Danielle have five children so we knew the farm would once again my twin girls were 10. We were heartbroken to have to sell our house, which had only be filled with happy noise. been built in 1986, but there was no way I could carry the mortgage and the expenses But where would we go? It didn’t take long for us to realize that the answer was on my salary alone. I had no idea where I would go because our family also included a right in front of us. We decided to keep our yellow farmhouse and sell the barn and horse, dog, cat, turtle, and fish! But a good friend tipped me off that there was a house little house to Bryan and Danielle. As we went through the somewhat tedious profor rent in a charming area of Wilmington called Medburyville and so the kids and I cess of financing, appraisals, and surveys for this sale, we got to know them even went on a rainy April Sunday to take a look at the house. better. They shared their ideas of what they wanted to do with the barn Something happened when I walked into the homey kitchen with the and we told them what we had planned for the farmhouse. We knew center island. There was also a front porch off the kitchen that looked that they would love this property as much as we do. onto a nice lawn and dirt road. I can only describe the feeling as When we told our children, they were thrilled and happy “coming home.” I met the owner, Lenny Chapman, at the for us. I think my children are especially looking forward house for the first time. He lived in the large barn that to visiting our new home because the house holds so was on the farm. In addition, there was a smaller many great childhood memories for them. I was house in the back of the property. The farm was surprised and happy to see the stenciling my charming and had been a sheep farm in the early daughters had done in their bedroom closets 1900s. Lenny had purchased the property in 1987. close to 30-years ago still intact, in spite of the The farm had been abandoned and all the buildmany tenants who had come and gone in the ings were in terrible disrepair. Lenny had restored house through the years. Paisley wallpaper that the yellow farmhouse first and one summer he and Michael, Lenny’s son, had picked out long ago his son, Michael, lived there while they continued when he and Lenny spent the summer renovatto work on the other buildings. ing was still inside a built-in closet in the bedI immediately fell in love with the house (and room. We decided to keep the stenciling and later I fell in love with Lenny) and the kids, I, and the paisley wallpaper in the closets to remind a menagerie of animals moved into our beloved The Chapmans’ barn has new owners, which allowed us of happy times long ago. farmhouse the following August. We had four the author to return to her beloved farmhouse. File photo On July 11 we closed on the property and wonderful years in the house until Lenny and I Bryan, Danielle, Lenny and I drank chamstarted dating in 1997. Shortly after, my son went pagne and celebrated. I think none of us believed it had really happened. They began off to college, and my daughters and I moved into the barn with Lenny. The yellow their renovations on the barn and we started ours on the farmhouse as we planned the farmhouse continued to be a rental property through the years. In March 2001, Lenny next chapter of our lives. We often would all sit on our front porch after a day’s work and I were married in the barn and the following September my girls were off to college talking about our future plans. It is such a good feeling to breathe new life into this and we were empty nesters. house and give it the love and attention it deserves. As I write this, it is Christmas time We had so much fun in the barn as Lenny continued to renovate the large spacious and our renovations are just about complete. We love our new home and this time, area. We had weddings, birthdays, and family reunions there and also realized our Lenny and I have come home together. dream of having an antique shop. We had wonderful tenants in both houses and the barn and the place was filled with happy noise. As time went on, our children married, we had grandchildren, and the years flew by like pages flipping through a paperback novel. After the flood of 2011, we closed the antique shop in the barn and opened one on Main Street. We started to realize that keeping a property so large was a lot of work – especially for Lenny. It was a tough decision but we decided to put the place on the market, having no idea where we might go. All our children had moved away but Lenny and I still loved Wilmington. It didn’t matter, though, because the place never sold. There are not many people who are as crazy as Lenny (and me!) who would want to take on a property that size. When the pandemic hit we were home 24/7. We kept busy during that time taking on projects around the farm that we had put off for years. And although we were staying home, it was bearable because we had our neighbors. Every day I would walk to the lake at the end of the road and could visit with friends while socially distancing. I planted a large vegetable garden andcooked elaborate meals while Lenny finished restoring a beautiful horse-drawn coach, among other things. As the pandemic started to wind down, we realized that we did not want to move off the farm. We loved the place and why worry about not being able to go up and down stairs when we were still able to do it with ease? Lenny decided to buy a brand new tractor which would make some of his chores easier. We decided to do some redecorating in our barn apartment starting with the guest room. We tackled the guest room with renewed energy – taking off the wallpaper that had been there since 1997 (it was time!) and I found a beautiful moss green paint for the walls. And then, in a blink of an eye, our life changed. The phone rang while we were Diane Chapman

H

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Players pick up pickleball pandemic

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Diane Lussardi

hances are most folks have heard of pickleball, but have no idea what it is. Often described as somewhere between pingpong and tennis, pickleball is actually a game all its own. Yes, it’s played with a paddle and a ball and you have to get the ball over a net. In my opinion, that’s where the similarities end. It’s a game played with a paddle and plastic ball with holes in it that looks like a large whiffle ball. It can be played indoors or outdoors on a court one-third the size of a tennis court. It’s a game that has been described as “A sweet game with a sour name” and “A serious game with a silly name.” However you decide to define it, it’s the fastest growing sport in America, and millions of people of all ages are playing. The consensus seems to be that anyone can play! Kids are playing with their parents, seniors are forming leagues, retired athletes are giving pickleball a try, teenagers are incorporating the game into their social lives and the game provides something for couples to do together. On a professional level, the game is soaring and professional leagues have been forming for several years. In addition to that, celebrity athletes like Tom Brady and LaBron James are actually investing in the sport at the highest level. My introduction to pickleball was right here in Wilmington. I had been looking for a new form of exercise as an addition to my daily walk. One day I stopped by OSEC (Old School Enrich-

Pickleball is played with paddles and whiffle balls on a court one-third the size of a tennis court. Photos courtesy of the author. ment Community Center) where I knew there was a group playing. I observed several games and players appeared to be having fun. It looked easy enough and I thought, “I think I can do this.” I began my venture into the sport by joining a beginners’ group held once a week at OSEC that included lessons

from an instructor. I understood what I was supposed to do, but couldn’t always achieve my goals. I didn’t have a history of playing tennis but I did have history of playing pingpong. I recall my early years playing with my dad. He was a great table tennis player. Our pingpong table was usually set up in our garage but there were times when it was actually in our living room. Fortunately my mom was a relaxed and an easy-going good sport about it. Why is pickleball so popular? It’s relatively easy to jump into because it’s easy to learn (but to be truly skilled takes time and practice) and the financial outlay is affordable. Some describe pickleball as a not very serious game. In fact, pickleball may be easy to learn, but it’s difficult to master. It requires skill and fast reflexes and shots have to be accurate. The game can also be played before or after work, on weekends or on vacation. Groups have formed in many towns near Wilmington including Brattleboro, Bennington, Manchester, Keene, NH, and Greenfield, MA. Because of the popularity, flexibility and the inclusion of a wide range of abilities, it’s often easy to join games while on vacation as well, both in the US and elsewhere. Play-

ing pickleball brings people together who have a common interest. Finding a group usually means that you’ll also find a community of friends. I recently asked some of my fellow players at OSEC what motivates them. Doris, a part-time West Dover resident who has been very active in the Wilmington group, put it this way; “It’s a great equalizer type of activity, where skill and strategy come into play a lot. I’ve heard it likened to chess and have found that to be true. The game is a lot more nuanced, complex, and challenging than I originally thought but that’s a big part of what keeps me coming back. Not only do I get a good physical workout, but a mental one too. It’s a great sport for keeping one’s reflexes sharp. When I’m on the court, I’m fully engaged in it, completely in the present moment, and that’s a great feeling.” Her husband Doug added, “Pickleball is far from the game for older people we thought it was. It’s a great game for all ages. Its most often played as a ‘doubles’ game. This provides for a lot of teamwork and great social interaction.” Ron, another regular at the Wilmington pickleball group, enthusiastically states, “ I love pickleball! I thought I would never play another racquet or paddle sport ever again until I was introduced to pickleball. I always played and liked paddle and racquet sports. I went from handball to paddle ball to indoor fourwall paddle ball to racquet ball. Those were my sports of preference. Not being able to play these sports for many years because of knee replacements and foot surgery was, to say the least, disappointing. Now, I met pickleball, and I’m having a ball. That’s all I want to do. What’s great about it is you can do it at your own pace and level and just enjoy. Love it!” Jeffrey, an ardent Wilmington player, describes his inspiration to play pickleball as competitive as well as social; “When my golf buddy Don mentioned he was playing pickleball at the community center downtown, I became curious. I of course had heard about the emergence and sudden popularity of the sport, mostly among the “older” generation of active seniors, but had no idea what it was all about except it was played with a paddle and some type of whiffle ball on a small version of a tennis court. I am 68 years old and hadn’t had a paddle in my hands since I was a teenager in the Catskill Mountains playing what was then called paddleball (against a wall).

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Michaelanne and Carolyn tap their paddles after a game, a fun way to say, “Good game!” I was intrigued and when he told me they gave a clinic every Thursday morning for beginners, I decided to give it a try. Within the first hour, I was totally hooked. The sound of the ball hitting the paddle, the energy and fast pace of the game, the interaction with the other players on the court made the experience almost addictive from the start. I went home that morning and immediately ordered my own paddle and pickleball shoes online for overnight delivery. I have since worked hard at my game but most importantly have met some amazing people and made great new friends who share the same love of the sport that I now have. I try to keep my competitive nature

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Don, Jeffrey, Rod, and Gary wrap up a game at the Old School Community Center in Wilmington.

in check but that part of my game still needs a lot of work. It’s the camaraderie that matters, not so much the winning or losing. It’s as much a social activity as it is a game or competition. Being a part of the Wilmington pickleball community is what I’m most proud of.” Middlebury player Judy explains, “I play pickleball because it is fun, and also great exercise. My group was fortunate to host a clinic recently and we had a chance to practice drills dinking and volleying, along with learning some new techniques. There is so much more to learn, and each time I play I feel I get a little bit better. It’s fun to win, but the social and physical aspect is what keeps me

excited to continue playing!” For me, pickleball me gets me up and out of the house for a few hours, allows me to feel part of something growing in my community and provides exercise, sociability, focus, as well as health benefits (my cholesterol levels have dropped several points since I started to play); And it feels good to strive toward getting better at something. Pickleball has been called an “invasive species” because 5-million people in the US are currently playing the game. Like a pandemic, it’s infectious and contagious, spreads quickly, but you don’t have to wear a mask or isolate. The cure is to keep playing. You’ll get better!

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Boyd family celebrating 100 years and six generations on the farm Jill Adams

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rom being one of the first families to settle in Wilmington to one of the last remaining operational farms in the town, this Vermont family remains Boyd Strong. In the summer of 2023 the Boyd family is celebrating 100 years and six generations of owning and working the land on the East Dover Road in Wilmington. A diverse working farm owned by Dannie “Bucky” and Janet Boyd, of Boyd Real Estate, they are no strangers to hard work or changing with the times and the seasons. They have done what it takes to keep the farm in the family and the family on the farm. It is where they raised children DJ and Gillian and gone to great lengths to maintain the multigenerational feel of it for their grandchildren, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, neighbors, and amazing staff. Not only have they made family welcome but always have an opportunity for them to engage with farm practices if they so desire, in an effort to keep traditions alive. While the Boyd family has been at their current farm location for the past 100 years, the Boyd family has been around since the early days of Wilmington’s inception. It was Abraham Boyd, of Hopkinton, MA, who purchased land in Wilmington while making journeys up and down the Deerfield River from Shelburne, MA, in the early 1770s. He was a veteran of the Revolutionary War, having fought at Bunker Hill and the Battle of Bennington. Abraham and his wife Hannah (Hill) are considered to be one of the first five settler families in Wilmington, officially residing in the town by 1777, where he immediately carved out an area of felled trees and put up a crude log cabin in the area of Wilmington known as Mountain Mills which today lies beneath Harriman Reservoir. It is where he brought his five young sons to raise - Abraham Jr., Robert, Levi, Simeon, and Stephan - ranging in age from 9 years to under 1-year-old at the time. In 1781 Hannah gave birth to their last and final son, Luther, the son whose lineage descends to the current Boyd family. For the next 140 years, the Boyd prodigy of Abraham bought up large amounts of the land along the fertile river valley in Wilmington and grew to over 400 inhabitants, with the majority living in Wilmington, Whitingham, and Readsboro. This area of Wilmington was not only a prosperous agricultural and logging community, it flourished with diversity. There was a large sawmill which employed more than 50 people, a pulp mill, a hospital, store, railroad station, boarding house, church, post office, a school house for grades one through eight, and even a mining plant for a short period of time. Having a railroad and station made exporting goods to the city lucrative enough to expand maple sugaring operations and ship lumber, cream, butter, and handmade harnesses to name a few. The railway system also opened the door to tourism and many farmers opened up their farms to guests. Famous people were buying land close by because it became easily accessible to the area by rail, including Theodore Roosevelt Jr., Rudyard Kipling, and former president Grover Cleveland, who was a member of Wilmington’s Field and Stream Club.

Emma and Dewin Boyd posed for this photograph with their infant daughter Mertie, left, and son Milo. The date of the photo is unknown. Photos courtesy of the author.

Unfortunately, this would all be short-lived. The Boyds along with many other families, businesses, including the two mills, were forced to sell due to the Harriman Dam project in Whitingham. The Hoosac Tunnel &Wilmington Railroad tracks were moved to higher ground, a new trestle built, and many of the buildings were moved closer to town as the New England Power Company began buying up tracts of land as early as 1910. By 1924, the power company owned over 6,100 acres of the most fertile and productive agricultural land in Wilmington. On May 5, 1924 the dam began flooding the whole valley of Mountain Mills over a period of weeks. While some families sold their properties early on in the dam project, the ones that didn’t were forced to abandoned their properties and homes and relocate without compensation, all in the name of progress. According to Wilmington’s town records, in 1926 the New England Power Company owned 23% of the town’s acreage and contributed approximately 70% of the taxes collected in Wilmington. Things have changed dramatically since 1926. Today the current hydro company is still the largest land owner in Wilmington, owning over 3,800 acres, yet their contribution to Wilmington’s coffers is less than 1%. The people of Mountain Mills who were longing to stay left unwillingly. Their lives had been centered around their farms and the mills. They had to search for new homes and new jobs. Among the many families in need of relocation was the great-great grandson of Abraham and Hannah, Edwin Herbert Boyd and his family. Edwin and his son Milo found a temporary farmstead to rent on White’s Road in Wilmington before

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finally finding the farm on the East Dover Road where the family of Dannie “Bucky” and Janet Boyd continue to farm today. The hillside farm was chosen by Edwin and his wife Emma because the house was basically the mirror image of the home they left behind under the Harriman Reservoir. Milo and his wife Helen (Pratt) farmed the land, sugared, hunted, trapped, and logged. They raised a family of five at this new homestead: Charlotte, Urban, Herbert “Herbie,” Ernest “John,” and Elliot “Pickle.” For a while, Milo continued engineering for the railroad, hauling logs from Somerset to the mill in Wilmington until the Great Flood of 1936 destroyed the railroad trestle for the final time. At that point the Hoot, Toot & Whistle Railroad decided to close the railway chapter of history in Wilmington. The farm continued in following the economic and agricultural trends of Vermont, with John not only focused on logging and growing vegetables with the nearby Moore family, but also expanded the small dairy cattle herd for selling milk and cream. In addition to raising six children, his wife Janice (Batchelder) sold raspberries and gathered ferns for sale to ship out of the area. John was drawn to music. He played guitar, was in the Wilmington High School band, was a revered caller at local square dances, and his yodeling could be heard echoing amidst the hills. His farmhouse became a popular place for kitchen junkets, sometimes nightly -- a gathering of neighbors sharing the most recent gossip, commiserating about the weather, singing, fiddle-playing, sometimes dancing, and always plenty of laughter. His children quickly joined in, learning songs and picking up instruments, with Carol on banjo, Bucky on guitar, and the twins - Leon on a 12-string guitar and Cleon on the spoons and washboard. This eventually led to the Boyd clan forming a band in the 1970s and performing at virtually every venue up and down the valley for years. As the boys became husbands and fathers the financial needs of family life took a priority over playing in the bars. With the Boyds’ vast knowledge of land, weather, and the ability to operate heavy equipment, Leon, Cleon, and Bucky were hired by the local ski resort, Mount Snow, to groom trails and create the most optimal ski terrain for the winter clientele. At times each of them worked maintaining the trails year-round. There were several winters when the twinkling beams of light from groomers operated by two generations of Boyds could be seen on the mountain slopes of Mount Snow and Haystack under the night sky. Their knowledge of snow, how to operate equipment, and passion for music has been passed on to their children and several grandchildren. Leon’s children, Justin and Jen, grew up listening to grooming stories and Justin has tried his hand at his dad’s guitar. Jen knows all the songs. Cleon’s sons Chris and Zachari both have ridden in the groomers and Zach now drives his own. Chris plays the 12-string guitar and Zach plays banjo. Naomi and Megan know all the words to all the songs. Bucky’s children, DJ and Gillian, loved grooming with him, and DJ went on to groom for many years. However the growth of the Boyd Family Farm requires his full-time attention these days. DJ also plays guitar and his son Logan, who plays a variety of instruments, also works on the farm. Logan can be seen around the Deerfield Valley performing live music at a variety of venues and playing at private functions. The twins gained national news as a result of their deaths from COVID-19 in early 2020. The community was grief-stricken. Because of the inability to get together and console during the pandemic, a local procession was organized to drive past the Boyd Farm, Tammy (Boyd) Snow’s home, the home of Cleon’s son Chris, and Pam and Leon Boyd’s house, to pay respect and tribute. The parade of fire trucks from all the neighboring towns, ambulances, log trucks, town trucks, antique John Deere tractors, motorcycles, hundreds of decorated cars and trucks, along with the twins’ vacant groomer towed on a trailer by Mount Snow was first organized following the death of Cleon Boyd in March 2020. It was through the outpouring of community support that Cleon’s daughter Meghan Carrier would coin the phrase #BoydStrong and create an accompanying logo to aid in the healing process. The logo and slogan can be seen throughout the valley on signs, flags, vehicles, snow groomers, stickers, and tattoos. The old Edwin H. Boyd family farmstead is mostly buried beneath the waters of the reservoir but some land remains above the high-water mark and can still be accessed. Bucky and Janet own a woodlot and camp high up on the hillside of Medburyville, where the Boyd clan frequently gathers to hunt, play music, escape the busy modern-day world, and get back to the basics of their roots. Bucky says when you walk down the mountain, you can still discern the old family property by the decrepit old train tracks still left visible and imagine what life was life back when. Although the twins, Leon and Cleon, are missed every day, for many of the Boyds’ their presence is at its greatest void when going to the lake, up the steep rustic trail, and opening the doors to a vacant camp. The log cabin where they gathered for the last half-century is void of their voices, laughter, and

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Milo, Leo, and Mertie Boyd show off their bounty at the farmstead in Mountain MIlls after a hunting trip somtime around 1911. music. With every loss comes a new beginning and, as history shows, the next generation and crop of Boyds is destined to continue along with the family stories, music, and commiseration about the weather. When you visit the Boyd Family Farm you can’t help but notice the traditional New England architecture, old barns, outbuildings, antique relics of various sorts, old farm equipment, along with greenhouses, colorful and useable landscaping, and new construction, which is always in progress. There is always something to see or a story to be shared, an amazing fragrance to smell, and you’ll definitely find something that you need to take home. Home is what the Boyd Family is all about and passing it on to the next generation is of the utmost importantance to Bucky and Janet. If you enter Janet’s office you can’t help but notice the library of old books, a grand piano, where you can envision the family gathering on special occasions. But if you look past the mountain of paperwork, the computer, and other office equipment, needed to maintain this complex enterprise, you’ll see the keys to Milo’s train engine hanging on the farmhouse wall; just another tangible relic to the memories that tie them to the old Erwin H. Boyd homeContinued on page 22

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Two generations of Boyd men: back row, Cleon, Danny (Bucky), and Leon. Front row: DJ, Chris, Justin, and Zach. This photo was taken before Cleon and Leon died from COVID-19.

Family continues traditions Continued from page 21

stead buried beneath the watery grave of the Harriman Reservoir. With each changing season the Boyd Family Farm has something unique to offer, which they produce from the land, while other enterprises are year-round and steady. In the late spring and summer they have greenhouses full of vegetables, flowersand hanging plants. Outside is a wide selection of zone-appropriate perennial plants for southern Vermont, flowering shrubs, ornamental trees, berry bushes, and fruit trees. The farm market has coolers full of fresh vegetables, greens, and herbs from the garden, which they also sell to area markets and restaurants. They sell local maple syrup, jams, and honey. They have a variety of flowers, which are available by stem and/or container, as well as full floral services for private events and functions throughout the year, including weddings and celebrations of life. The family has been fortunate to have Boyd cousin, Shirlee Sullivan and her artistic talent and floral design skills utilized for this aspect of the farm. July and August is when the acres of blueberries are ripe and ready for pickyour-own. You’ll often see flyers around town featuring workshops on the farm and other special events. The Boyd family is also contracted by the town of Dover to plant and care for all the container plants along Route 100 in Dover. In addition, the Boyd Family Farm provides landscaping and lawn mowing services throughout Wilmington and Dover. If you are driving along Route 100 near the Boyd Farm from May through October, you will see DJ Boyd tending the gardens almost seven days a week. His knowledge of sowing seeds and raising crops is extensive and he is usually willing to share his expertise if asked. Grandson Logan Boyd splits his time between the gardens, the vegetable wash room, and mowing lawns. He is happy to assist wherever he is needed, as well as with whichever seasonal chore may need to be done. Grandchildren Ryan and Izzy are pulled in when extra hands are needed. The farm transforms its bounty and colors in the fall and features pumpkins, squash, gourds, bittersweet, corn stalks, hay bales, potted mums in a variety of containers, along with ornamental kale and cabbage. The landscape crew is in full force offering fall debris cleanup, road repair, and winter home preparations. In winter, when the mowing equipment and weed whackers are all put away, the snowplows and sanders go on the trucks and the Boyd Farm offers seasonal contract snow removal and sanding. But the most special offerings, beginning in November, are hand-created through the month of December, walk into the wreath-making barn to witness the magic. For over 40 years, Janet and her elves have been producing hundreds of wreaths, swags, roping, kissing balls, and evergreen tabletop arrangements for hundreds of customers. It is quite a sight to see this workshop in operation and enjoy the smell of Christmas and the opportunity to meet some of Janet’s side of family at work, including Mary Genella, Therese Lounsbury, and several of her nieces. Janet knows how to put all available hands to good use. It is intense work for the landscape crew to cut many of the trees available for sale along with the all the balsam boughs needed to make the wreaths and centerpieces. When the plowing season begins to come to a close and the mud begins to appear is when Bucky is up every four-hours stoking the wood furnace to heat the greenhouses for all the seeds to begin going into the warm soil. The family gathers together at the small family sugarhouse as maple sugaring season begins. All the firewood needed for this growing season is harvested and cut up in the crew’s “spare time.” In addition to keeping up with all the farming operations and real estate business, Janet Boyd is the creator and organizer behind the annual Deerfield Valley Blueberry Festival. In 2012, the governor proclaimed the Deerfield Valley as the “Vermont State Blueberry Capitol.” She and the family are also responsible for organizing the annual Make-A-Wish Duck Race in Wilmington for the past 34 years. Janet is also a founding board member and development organizer of the Old School Community Center. She is deeply dedicated to her community, family, and the need for multigenerational interaction. Happy 100th anniversary to the Boyd Family Farm! The community is grateful for all you contribute to the area and hopes that the farm and family remain Boyd Strong for another few centuries of continual success. For more information visit www.boydfamilyfarm.com or call (802) 464-5618.

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A walk in the woods Deborah Stewart Canedy

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here’s nothing better than a walk in the woods. Perhaps not in the style of the movie by that name, where folks tumble around, get lost, and near freeze to death; no, I’m thinking of short walks or hikes that take us out among the trees and fern glades, where you can smell the freshness of the earth in the moss after a light rain, where there is no traffic noise, no congestion of people, just a simple communion with nature. My dad and I used to snowshoe up the hill in front of our house every winter to cut down a Christmas tree. I should say, most winters we snowshoed, as often it would be a cold, drizzly day before snow had fallen. He would chide me to keep a pace, rather than run up the hill, as I would be out of breath in a few minutes, while he, keeping his regular pace, would stride along with a constant rhythm. We had a great forest to choose from, with spruces, pines, and maples, and we always had to remember that what looked like a small evergreen in the woods would be 12 feet tall, way too tall for our 8-foot ceiling in the house. Or, we would cut that large tree only to chop 4 feet off the bottom once we got it home, leaving branches and needles scattered all over the front lawn. Dad was a seasoned lumberman. When he was a teenager, he became a logger with his father and would log up in Somerset. Logging is one of the most dangerous professions, as is ocean fishing. Grandpa and Dad had a camp in Somerset where they would spend weeks at a time during the winter, cutting, felling, and shooting the trees down the river to be piled up onto horse-drawn wagons or trucks, which were then taken to a sawmill. Everything was done by hand; no power saws or levers, no tractors up in the hills. I heard of a man up in the Dover area who had a blind horse who could take a load of trees on a skid down a mountain road with no problem, just feeling its way along. One of the reasons Lincoln Haynes hired my Dad was that Dad could calculate, in his head, the number of board feet in a felled tree. Later in his life, Dad would watch the log trucks going by the house and remark on the type of wood piled on, approximate board feet, and what it was probably going to be used for. There were three sections of the mountain in front of our house. About halfway up the first part of the hike up

Loggers and a team of draft horses, location and date unknown. Photo courtesy of the author. the mountain, there was a gigantic ant hill. I had to remember not to walk on it, as the ants would attack my feet. Mother had seen a bear and a bobcat up there, at different times, from the window of our house. Mother always wanted to have Dad build a house up there, away from the road and set back in the trees. That would have made for a lovely setting. Unfortunately, when Mother was very ill, Dad had to sell that 10-acre parcel to help pay her medical bills. When you reached the middle section of the mountain, it flattened out a bit and an enchanting fern glade opened up in the summer, protected by tall pines and spruces. The sunlight would filter down, dappling the floor of the forest, and you could imagine fairies dancing around in delight. The uppermost part of the mountain was ledge and extremely steep, causing you to use your hands and feet to grapple your way up, but then the very top opened up and out emerged the firetower, a small hut and outbuildings. Dryads The old believers used to talk about the tree fairies - dryads. This comes from Greek mythology for tree nymphs. I believe my mother could have been a dryad.

She adored the woods and imparted her knowledge by teaching us the names of the trees, woodland plants, mushrooms and mosses. We were told specifically which plants were not to be picked, such as the lady slippers, wild orchids. On the day of her funeral, on Stowe Hill Road, I saw mother’s spirit emerge from the edge of the wood of the cemetery for a brief moment; then she disappeared back into the wood. In that brief moment, she was a young, pretty woman again. It was as if she was letting me know she was alright; that everything was alright. The Old Fire Tower The summer I was 17, I decided I would hike up the mountain every day and conquer my fear of climbing the fire tower. I wanted to see the glorious view from the top, as you could see Haystack, Mount Snow, Stratton, and all over the valley. That particular summer, a young woman was the fire-watcher. Her name was Elizabeth and she and I became summer friends. Elizabeth was around 20 and had decided to become a nun. I guess she and I had a lot in common: the love of solitude, quietness, and a love of animals and nature. I thought Elizabeth quite adventurous alone up on the mountain. She had a black and white sheepdog who

had a litter of puppies while there. It was great fun to play with the pups and watch them grow. The cabin for the tower watchers was a log structure, about 7 feet in height, 12 feet long, and 8 feet wide, and chinked with moss. When the old woman was there in the ‘50s, the furniture was all twig. By the time Elizabeth came in the late ‘60s, there were only a few pieces left. The outhouse wasn’t too far from the cabin. The natural spring for her drinking water was about halfway down the mountain, on the ski trail side, but there was also a rain barrel outside the cabin. Everything on the top of the mountain was ledge, plain and rustic, with no frivolous nonessentials. But Elizabeth had one thing that might have been considered frivolous: she painted in watercolors. She painted a most beautiful watercolor for me that summer - eagles soaring about the trees, silhouettes in blues and whites. I still have that painting and cherish the memories of that lovely summer. There is solace in the loneliness of the woods and at the top of a mountain. The wind blows differently up there, the air is crisper and smells fresher. The only sounds are from the birds, the wind, and the trees creaking. Stop, and listen.

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Couple riding the emerald wave Jason Barney

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he prohibition of cannabis has ended in the state of Vermont. It is a drug, therefore it was considered bad. For years, drugs represented a moral and public health line that could not be crossed. Federal and state governments appropriately maintained laws against them. However, cannabis was wrongfully lumped in with more dangerous substances. Alcohol also has an interesting history with the law. Booze is the most wellknown example of society’s struggle with a controlled substance. Its treatment has earned special status in history textbooks, “The Prohibition Era.” Just mentioning it evokes images of the 1920s and 1930s. Attempts at regulation were doomed from the start. Law enforcement was just not able to control the black market that developed. And like alcohol a century ago, the legal status of cannabis is changing. Good, well-intentioned people have labeled marijuana a “gateway drug.” To them it represents a dangerous bridge between alcohol and other substances. States like Vermont have been reevaluating marijuana laws for decades. Within our lifetime legislators finally began to publicly question why the reaction to pot was so heavy-handed. Even conservative citizens wondered about the law and its repercussions. Eventually, they concluded it was not worth using police resources to nab marijuana offenders. If a bunch of college kids wanted to get stoned, go for a

Nick Smith, co-founder of Emerald Visions, checks on his cannabis seedlings. Photos courtesy of the author. walk and admire nature, or just sit around and listen to classic rock in somebody’s basement, were those circumstances worth involving law enforcement? For many, the answer became “no.” At the same time, users moved their disagreement with the law to the protest stage. In the 1990s college students and activists in Burlington participated in the annual “4/20” protest. Boldly, they took the official police identification for a marijuana violation and gathered to smoke pot publicly on April 20 each year. The activists calculated that numbers mattered and if crowds of people flouted the rules, law enforcement would not arrest everyone. Police monitored the protests but didn’t really get involved. While cities on the West Coast debated the decriminalization of cannabis, Vermont weighed the possible medical benefits. It was a political and legal risk,

as federal laws conflicted with these state and local initiatives. The concerns were brushed aside and two decades ago the Green Mountain State passed its medical marijuana bill. The relationship between a patient and medical professional was more important than historical bias. Some detractors argued we were on the slow, slippery slope to legalization. They were correct. Within Vermont, a few city governments instructed law enforcement to no longer enforce state marijuana laws. Eventually, Vermont decriminalized it by eliminating many of the penalties for possession. A few years ago major changes were made to state law. Individual towns were given the authority to put the legalization issue to the voters and let them decide. The Legislature’s actions created a patchwork map. Different communities could vote and approve marijuana dispensaries.

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Nick Smith and Ashely Brown in their cannabis facility in Arlburgh. Not surprisingly, on Town Meeting days in 2021 and 2022, some voters rejected the local initiatives. However, a good number of Vermont’s cities and small towns embraced the end of prohibition for marijuana. For cannabis, 2022 and 2023 are landmark years. People are now able to go into licensed shops and purchase cannabis legally. Many of these establishments must get their marijuana from approved producers. After decades of prohibition, cannabis is like any other agricultural product. Dairy farmers bring milk to market. Maple sugar producers boil sap and sell syrup. Lumber yards need timber. Vineyards harvest grapes for wines. Orchards grow apples. Cannabis is now hitting markets without the government getting in the way. What was once illegal, hidden, and risky to participate in is now part of Vermont’s agricultural economy. One business growing the new product is Emerald Visions in the small town of Alburgh. The owners are on the cutting edge of the industry. Of the many cannabis-related startups popping up, they have pushed through the regulatory haze without investors. Ashley Bown and Nick Smith started Emerald Visions with their own money. As licensed growers they sell to shops, not individuals. Located in the isolated northwestern section of the state, Emerald Vision is already getting a lot of interest. With the shadows of black market activity removed, business is better than expected. Ashley and Nick have now legally harvested their first two rounds of cannabis and as winter gives way to spring, they eagerly await the third crop. Their interest in the industry goes back to some open-minded child raising. Nick lived in St. Albans until he was 16 and then moved to Bakersfield with his family. During his final years of school Nick’s father noticed that his grades had slipped. His father found his pipe and Nick admitted he was smoking weed. Father and son talked things out. At that point, some unconventional parenting took over. The father promised the son that if he brought home a report card full of A’s and B’s, he didn’t care if he used marijuana. Nick had to be safe. No driving. He needed to be selective about who he was used with. The agreement went a bit further. Nick’s father told him that he could grow marijuana if he kept those grades up. Soon, the report card was the envy of many students. Nick attended college in California, where he continued to consume cannabis. California had experimented with legalization much earlier than many states, and Nick took advantage. He grew for craft cannabis collaboratives. Different areas of California had varying viewpoints on marijuana laws, and not all users or growers were treated equally. He was arrested for possession and distribution in San Diego and served three months in prison. When Nick returned to the Northeast, Vermont was in the midst of changing its laws to allow medical dispensaries. Nick met Ashley, originally from Rochester, when they were employed by Smuggler’s Notch. Then he was employed by Champlain Valley Dispensary (now called CERES) in Milton. He quickly identified issues with the quality of their product, something he wanted to improve. He was hired as a cultivator and then, after just a few months, he was promoted to head cultivator. When Vermont removed cannabis from the black market, Ashley and Nick talked about their situation, their dreams, and the possibilities. It didn’t take long for them to decide to roll the dice and take a chance. They knew they needed a place to do business from, to grow their product, so they purchased a small office-space-type building just south of Alburgh Village. It had been used as storage by several different local businesses over the years. Now it hosts one of Vermont’s newest agricultural endeavors. While Nick has been busy outfitting the grow location, Ashley has been heavily involved in the behind-the-scenes work, making sure their efforts are all in compliance with regulations. Inside Emerald Visions’ facility, the product is not grown clandestinely - under grow lights - in someone’s basement. Nick, Ashley, and Emerald Visions’ are considered a Tier 1 indoor cultivator. Everything they do is in alignment with the Vermont Cannabis Control Board and complies with the town’s business regulations. Like the rest of the business, Emerald Vision’s online presence just started. Their logo, forest green crystals framed with a trippy triangle and a revealing eye, is inviting, honest, and creative. The background art is a big marijuana bud that would make any college student salivate. Years ago this would have been looked down upon. In light of Continued on page 26

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A growing business Continued from page 25

the fact the company can not sell from its facility, (Tier 1 growers supply the shops that are licensed to sell) the website just tells it like it is. A legal product is being grown, those interested can obtain it by patronizing any of Vermont’s new pot stores. The company’s owners have chosen not to attract undue attention. Drivers and passersby don’t even know there is a marijuana grow house just off the main road. From the outside, it still looks like any commercial property. There are no signs. Inside it is a different story. The deep, heavy smell of marijuana has settled into the facility and is stronger than the scent of a dark brew in a coffee shop. It is strong and rich, and area flower shops wish they had roses with such a strong aroma. The main hall is the primary work area, where employees sit in front of a long counter, pulling the leaves off mature marijuana buds. The hall provides access to half a dozen closed doors. A few of the rooms are not in use just yet, but they will be. When they are, Emerald Visions will achieve its longer term production goals. Ashley and Nick have done plenty of math, considered the market, and calculated the amount of cannabis customers are willing to purchase. Store owners have told them they are delivering a great product and that it moves off the shelves quickly. They look at their available workspace with nervous, prideful

Inside a cannabis growing facility: A worker at Emerald Visions checks the hydroponics system. eyes, and know that their business is likely to get much, much larger. Their first two crops took up a small percentage of their available space. They will expand their growing operations into the other three available rooms. When everything is up and running, Ashley and Nick will be harvesting a new crop every few weeks. The first growth cycles provide a window into what the future holds. Soon it will be six rooms, each as clean and sanitary as a science lab before an experiment. Each will contain cannabis in

the different stages of growth. One room contains younger plants. They are arranged under grow lights that give just the right amount of positive energy. Like a backyard gardener supporting their young tomatoes weeks after Town Meeting day, these immature plants are very valuable and well taken care of. The amount of moisture they get is regulated. The amount of nutrients is preplanned. The next room contains larger plants, ones much closer to budding. They are tall, nearly mature, and have not flowered. People with little exposure to cannabis plants might describe them as 4-or-5 foot tropical trees. These receive delicate attention and will be harvested soon. The buds will be cut and brought to the drying room. This final space is effectively a large dehydrator. A lot of time and care goes into this part of the cultivation process. It is an industrial scale herb drying rack, similar to the smaller ones found in New England kitchens. The space is open and accessible so workers can easily check in on the drying progress. Despite the easy access, there is little free space. Several dozen cords, like backyard clotheslines, run the length of the room. The temperature, airflow, and humidity are carefully controlled as the harvested plants undergo the drying process. From a business perspective, particular attention needs to be paid here, as regulators test the mold content of a grower’s harvest. If there is anything unwanted, those buds are not sent to market. The regulations are quite clear. Only clean, healthy products are sold to storefronts. In the black market, where college kids or risk-takers grew in basements or garages, little attention was devoted to this final step. With Vermont having tiptoed into legalization, the regulations ensure healthy products in stores. Emerald Visions checks and double checks, making sure their cannabis is exactly what the state and storefronts want. Once the plants have dried the hands-on work begins. A small number of employees take on the menial, but detailed final steps. Along the open hallway, workers sit hunched over trays, carefully separating dried leaves and stems from buds. They wear plastic gloves. The end result of all of this care and attention is orange-green cannabis buds, which are collected and placed in jars. These will be inspected yet again

to ensure quality before being delivered to the sellers. Like any business they has specific products that will interest customers. Emerald Visions sells multiple cultivars. They are Iced Bananas, Forbidden Runtz, Loma Prieta, Creamcicle X Zkittiez Cake, Popscotti, Ice Cream Candy, Gary P, Platinum Punch, Grape Gasoline, Runtz, Apple Fritter, and Gorilla Breath. While these names sound like they originated from a college dorm room filled with tapestries and surreal art, they reflect the market and the mindset of customers. The originality and freshness rival any bar or local eatery. Nick and Ashley are always hunting for new cultivars that might become popular. Emerald Visions would like to open a retail space in Alburgh where they could sell their products to locals. Right now they are just selling to the licensed venues. These businesses are located all over the state. A few rest to the east of the Green Mountains, along the New Hampshire border. A number have been started in communities in central Vermont. Several are in Chittenden County. One has started in Addison County. One is in Rutland County. The remaining state-approved seller of legal marijuana is in Bennington County, Juniper Lane. (Editor’s note: Ratu’s Cannabis Supply and Matterhorn Apothecary are both licensed cannabis retailers located in Wilmington.) Emerald Visions is prepared for the growth. As they jumped through all the regulatory hoops the state government put up, Nick reached out to law enforcement. He made a couple of calls, especially since the place of business was just a few miles from Canada, and Border Patrol agents drive by on a daily basis. Alburgh has its own border crossing north of the village, and Rouses Point, NY, has one about two miles away on the west side of Lake Champlain. Nick wanted to avoid any uncomfortable situations and hoped to make sure all levels of law enforcement were fully aware of what was going on. He reached out to the state police, and the local sheriff’s office. No law enforcement agency responded to the offer of a tour. The prohibition of cannabis has ended. Government appears to be leaving this expanding market alone. Based on consumer support that is exactly what customers want.

Winter/Spring 2023

The Cracker Barrel

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The Cracker Barrel

Winter/Spring 2023