This web-log is a combination of observations, including those of the krazy nutters I call friends, intermingled with my monthly column, Upper Valley Girl. The column has always ended with the words “Good day” (not because I’m cheery or Paul Harvey)–except for one when my editor died, which ended with “Good night.”
Upper Valley Girl began in 1996 at the suggestion of a fellow escapee from Manhattan, Sassy C. She and I worked as pool girls at the Woodstock Inn, then owned by Lawrance and Mary Rockefeller. We enjoyed ripsnorters poolside about our strange new lives in rural America. When Sassy told of astonishing incidents at select board meetings, I reported the shenanigans at the stable I worked at (everyone in Vermont has 4 jobs). She suggested I pitch a column to the local paper, The Vermont Standard.
This lovely weekly, privately owned for 160 years, serves 10 towns including Woodstock, Vermont, named one of America’s Most Picturesque Villages by National Geographic and The Prettiest Small Town in America by Ladies’ Home Journal—also the hometown of Vermont’s sole Congressman, Peter Welch (Damn you, Bill Maher, for suggesting we should only get 1 senator as well)—where the Standard‘s offices were creamed in the Irene flood of 2011. The paper serves the Upper Valley of the Connecticut River separating Vermont from its (some say lesser) sister state, New Hampshire.
Thanks to hootenanny-ist and editor, Kevin, and my deranged readership, I kept writing it even from Cali for five years. I planned to change the name when I turned 40, but “Upper Valley Woman” sounds like a plus-size clothing store. So I remain forever young, your Upper. Valley. Girl. Who’d have thought, that summer at the Woodstock Inn, that Sassy and I would live long enough for the title to become asinine? Little tip fer the Young People, there.