October 9
I found myself in a discussion with Kay and Bobby Kinny today. A discussion I didn't have time for, not with all the new books still waiting to be put away. But when folks come to visit it's right to make 'em welcome.
It started when Bobby asked me, "Who do you think are the most powerful folks in this town?" His face hung on me waiting for my answer.
His asking came straight out of nowhere and I tried to figure where it was leading. Here in Vermont we like to believe that everyone's about even, and mostly they are, at least at the soul level where it matters. But I can't be blinded to the fact that even here in Rural there's a herd of folks who can't pull themselves from bed in the morning unless they know they'll be getting things to go their way. But they aren't the powerful folks, I decided, just pushy.
I was still tumbling my own thoughts when Kay piped up from over near the Farm and Garden Section. "I'll tell you who's most powerful." she said directly to me, forgetting that I wasn't the one who asked the question or wanted to know. "The selectmen. You can't spit in this town without asking whether the town charter says it's ok. Ain't that right?"
The way Bobby's face twisted around on one side showed he was in disagreement with his wife. "Aaah, they's just babysitters--like the constables--makin' sure the youngin's behave while the parent's are out. Now, the zonin' administrator, the zonin' administrator has power to make a life miserable."
When folks speak, even at a whisper, nothing comes through louder than a grudge. There was no getting around the fact that Bobby was still fuming about not being allowed to add that screened porch to his cabin at the lake on account of it would alter the shoreline. And I can understand his being sore about it. Afterall, city folks rent that cabin and they want to be able to sit an' renew themselves in Vermont's great outdoors, only they want some wood and screening between them and the earth and its critters, specially at night.
So the conversation went around the store with Bobby and Kay mostly talking aloud to themselves about who had the most power in town. After Kay bought a book about horses for her niece I walked with them to the door, the two of them still arguing in the way that only spouses can.
From there at the door I could see, coming out of Moore's General Store, the couple who had been tagging around town with Leslie Miller, one of town's six realtors. Word was they were the ones who bought Larrabee's Farm, about six hundred acres atop Slate Hill. Larrabee's had stopped being a farm when I was a girl but no one called it Larrabee's Woods even though it'd be more fitting.
The couple, who looked to me to be at least half through their thirties,
but I've always been a poor judge of age, was plainly excited, carrying
paint cans, a hoe and rake; the usual things a new landowner needs. As they
were loading their trunk up with their goods a parcel tumbled down and smacked
the pavement. The husband bent down to retrieve it and noticed me as he
was straightening back up. He gave me a wide grin and a friendly wave which
I returned with one of my own. My hand was still swaying in the air as he
tossed a great big strapped bundle of No Tresspassing signs into the trunk
of his car. By then Bobby Kinny was too far down the road for me him to
hear my
answer to his question.
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