Category Archives: Uncategorized

Living Low on the Hog in Rural America

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The PBR tall-boy. Good enough for Clint Eastwood.

When a friend moved from New York to Connecticut decades ago, she railed about how everything was marketed there as country.  Country crockery. Country blue. Country curtains. CT was a lot of things, including the Nutmeg State, but it was not the country.

Their rural (scenis?) envy was understandable.These days, I wouldn’t mind their (sub)urban salaries. While we country folk were either born here or else traded income for an idyllic locale and are used to counting our farthings—so the New Austerity seems to us hardly new—things have definitely gotten harder. Since when is canned tuna “on sale” at $1.49? Wasn’t it 89 cents a can for, like, 15 years?

It’s gotten so tough here in paradise to pay for essentials while squirreling something away for old age that I, for one, have given up trying. I resort to a Ramen Pride lifestyle so I have enough to tithe and buy modest holiday gifts and send the occasional kid to summer camp. Financial advisor/retirement savings advocate Suze Orman would give me a spanking. But really, in the event of a global contagion or nuclear Armageddon, Suze, what good will our savings do us? I prefer games where you try to get rid of all your cards; he who has the least at the end wins. My retirement plan is to have spent it all by my death date, give or take fifty bucks. But I digress.

One of our maple-cured survival tricks for country living: we know how to have fun at little expense. While we didn’t invent pot luck— 16th century Brits did—we have taken that baby and run with it. We romp freely in our woods, lakes, and rivers and scamper about in snowy fields, leaving pricey divertissements like downhill skiing to strung-out city slickers (read: valued tourists) who, quite frankly, need ski outings to keep from going off the rails entirely. We save the craft beers for our guests and drink PBR in cans. The Genesee Cream Ale trucked here is allocated to killin’ slugs as firm evidence of our Yankee frugality threshold.

We get together and knit at the library. We form book clubs. We contradance. We pick up used instruments at yard sales and teach ourselves how to play. We may not be power yachting or padding our IRAs, but we can all hammer out Turkey in the Straw. And hey, if you haven’t taken up a musical instrument due to time constraints, my former mandolin teacher once had this to say, regarding the extra instrument (violin?) he had to learn to get a music degree:  “It’s amazing how little you can practice and still get better.”

My trick is to spend on fun and cut back on food spending. Often I see my meals as meager and pathetic. But then I think on college, when one can of corn plus one of stewed tomatoes equaled a “stew”;  a friend ate Ragu Bread, a dish of low-end bread topped sadly with spaghetti sauce. By those standards, Lord knows, I eat like a king. Though sometimes I do eat questionably old foods. It’s amazing what you can eat and not get sick. I save so much coin I can afford decent wine to share with nutter friends. (You know who you are. You are loved. But for God’s sake clean up the language next time.)

Yes, we dine cheaply, socialize cheaply, and amuse ourselves for next to nothing. Might I also suggest free classes at the hospital or affordable ones at RTCC or VTC? I’ve taken tai chi, Excel, gardening, kayaking, nonviolent communication, water aerobics, classes on how to take classes, you name it. Teach a class yourself. Or start a blog. Share your f-a-c-t-s or heart or wit. It’s amazing how little you can know and still have something to teach.  Good (country) livin’, and good day.

We Don’t Talk Politics Much in Rural America

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Michael Reynolds/AP

It’s not proper. But can I say that both parties in the veep debate last were mesmerizing?

Joe Biden came on like a fisher cat but with enough spazzy nutter facial expressions to round out his performance. I felt an almost maternal pride towards Paul Ryan for not soiling himself when it seemed as if every Biden statement ended with “…Son.”

[Coming to Vermont? The nasty, weasel-like fisher cat will run into your camper, steal your miniature doberman, take it, and eat it. BYO dingo.]

The Russians Are Strumming, The Russians Are Strumming!

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And sister could pick!

While many celebrate one man’s questionable achievements, including the accidental discovery of land leading, arguably, to genocide,  on Columbus Day (one of the more shocking Sopranos episodes, btw), some turned instead this weekend to the 9th Annual Russian and Slavic Cultural Festival in Howell, NJ.

Folk dancers from Troika dance troupe

If you haven’t heard a balalaika contrabass–or eaten those savory dumplings I won’t attempt to spell–you haven’t lived. I love how  every culture seems to have its dumpling.  Meat wrapped in dough… a tidy, giftwrapped present of meat. Fabulous!

Note 1: Amid much conflicting Internet info, it seems Columbus day wasn’t made a federal holiday until 1937, under FDR.

Note 2:  Don’t get me wrong.  Some of my best friends are Italians. A vivacious and lusty people. You always know where you stand with an Italian. Happy Columbus Day.

For All You Obstreperous Recalcitrants

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You can be a success!

One of the best presents I ever got was this box of vocabulary flashcards. No idea if the young people use flashcards any more, but I took to them like [plural noun] to a [singular noun]. I recommend the foreign language ones, too.

If you ever have to give a speech, here’s what some male friends used to do:  stick a word in there that the audience probably won’t understand but will be afraid to ask the meaning of.  Great good fun, like an inside joke.

I gave a speech yesterday and did my own version. I dressed like my 7th grade French teacher. She wore velvety pants and flowing shirts and when she wrote on the board her keister jiggled. As did mine, friends, as did mine.

keis·ter/ˈkēstər/

Noun:
  1. A person’s buttocks.

The People’s Forum

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Stick a fork in it, my people!

Because I encourage it, I get a fair amount of feedback, grievances, and downright weird commentary about this humble column.  I devote today’s piece to my people and their rantings.  And away we go.

Mt. Kisco, NY: “How about someone gets a snake tattoo when young and then adds a few dozen pounds.  By the time they’re done, the snake looks like it swallowed a goat.” (Or the tramp stamp, located on a particularly spreadable area, the Saddlebag.)

Westport, CT:  “I am ruffled by the way corporate and utility bills that come in the mail keep urging us to Go Green—not because they give a flying burrito about the planet, but so they can save on payroll and postage, which is to say naked greed. Automate the heck out of everything.  And bury your customer service number deep within your website. Have just two employees with minimal benefits and no customer service beyond recorded loop nonsense. All in the name of Going Green. Yeah, okay.”

Randolph, VT:  From a friend in her 80s, “At my age, Honey,  a nose job means melanoma removal.”

New York, NY: “This from my 11-year old niece: ‘Boys are nothing but problems.’ Wise beyond her years.”

Washington, DC:  “As film studios  and advertising agencies throw bizarre apocalyptic movies and disturbing television commercials at us, we urge: ‘We’re banged-up creatures in a post-9.11 world suffering from global disaster burnout, not  heartless rocks impervious to your scenes of contagion, explosions, and angels crashing on city pavement.’  What the heck are they thinking? Were the people who cooked this violence up born after 9.11? Possible. Employers like to hire people who’ll work for nothing because they’re still living with their parents—even after college.”

 Hanover, NH:  A friend e-mailed and I saved, “My new mantra so I don’t crack: No one escapes.” I wrote her back to ask what word I had mistakenly cut off at the end. No one escapes what?  Her reply: “Nothing. That was it. ‘No one escapes.’”

 Somewhere in the Heartland:  “I, too, eschew the news.  It’s what drove me out of my parents’ house when they generously let us, our birds, and our rescue cat stay there.  The TV was always on, tuned in to bad news followed by court TV followed by more news!  Waaaaait a minnnnute….”

Los Angeles, CA:  “It’s weird is how, almost instantly, you can tell how old basketball footage is from the shorts. Long shorts have been in so long it’s time for them to go out. Which is bad for those of us entering the Long Shorts—and Big Jewelry—years.”  (Also the Big Glasses years. They were in a season ago and you can still find monster ones that cover half your face. As for the short shorts, well, giant hair from the 80s never came back. So there’s hope.)

New Chappaqua, New York:  “My harp teacher sent me the Top Ten Tips To Remember About Playing In Public” (thematically abridged by UVG):

1. It’s a harp. They’re gonna love it.

3. Even if you do make a mistake and do telegraph it, they won’t care. It’s a harp. They’re gonna love it.

6. Noodling in the middle is perfectly acceptable until you can find your way back to the tune. It’s called improvising. They’ll think you did it on purpose, and since it’s a harp, they’re gonna love it.

8. People aren’t as tired of the old standards as you are. Go on, play Greensleeves. On a harp, they’ll love it.

10. You are sharing yourself in a way few people do, and you have a right to be proud of that. And since you are doing it with a HARP…They’re gonna love it.

Westchester, PA:  “On an Islamic holy day, my teenage son’s friends were all hanging out in town and one kid’s mother called him to reprimand him about praying, so he went into the Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom and said his prayers.  I couldn’t help myself; I asked my son, ‘How did he know to face east in a room with no windows?’  The answer, ‘Duh, his cell phone, Mom.’”  (Try the Compass app, you’ll lerv it!)

My doctor’s favorite bumper sticker:  Reality Is Not What You Think.

My suggested bumper sticker:  Just a minute, Officer. I’m texting.

Vanity Plate Spotted on Route 4:  PUZZLES

My next Vanity Plate:  PUZZLED

Feel free to send your deepest thoughts. For inspiration, play Deepest Purple, Deep Purple’s best of album (think: Space Truckin’).  Good day.

Ann Aikens can be reached via Facebook (ann.aikens.7), e-mail at uppervalleygirl@gmail.com, and Twitter at @uvgvt (http://twitter.com/uvgvt)

It’s Just Better ~ Tunbridge World’s Fare Part Deux

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This year’s TWF poster, by Wendy Judge of Royalton

When I’m not huffing Vicks VapoRub®, canoodling, or making embarrassing typos like “right up your ally,” I’m culling the herd of Deep Thoughts in my noggin to fill again this humble space for your amusement. This week’s deepest thoughts were memories of when, years ago, a friend and I were seeking a place to live and kept driving across the border between Vermont and New Hampshire looking at towns that came recommended.  Every time we crossed into Vermont, we breathed easier.  “It’s just better,” she said.  Which I propose now, 15 years later, as our new state motto.  No disrespect to the Granite State.

One reason Vermont rocks is its annual Tunbridge World’s Fair, or as one fan put it, “Sugar, lights, grease, noisy crowds…wow, an American dream.”  We go for the music, the animals, native Vermonters, rides, maple cotton candy, games of “skill”, and that blend of meats you can’t get at home—and wouldn’t want to but somehow crave once a year. It’s a draw, not a drawback.

Happily, this year’s Dairy Costume Class was the best ever. That’s where kids dress up their young cows and selves in sartorial representations of, say, Surgeon and Nurse. The three winners were Cop and Criminal, Burger and Fries, and Milk and Cookies, all brilliantly realized.

Burger and Fries

Cookies and Milk

Cop and Criminal

When the real-life cop manning the Applause-O-Meter pointed to the girl of Cop and Criminal, I yelled, “Lady cop!” and the guy next to me cried, “Conflict of Interest!” It’s that kind of gig and is my favorite, along with the Livestock Cavalcade (Supreme Dairy Cow, crazy goats, crazier humans in goat carts), which is second only in audience participation to the Coin Drop Cavalcade motorists enjoy on the way in.

The Livestock Cavalcade

I also like to vote on the Art and view the dioramas comprising the Children’s Decorated Vegetables. This year’s eyecatchers were the quilts, and a child’s ridged, skinny squash painted like a blue whale. Remarkable! Outside, my dad ran into an acquaintance in the know. This man said there used to be a Dance Hall where the maple hut now is, and the point was “to go in with your wife, and leave with somebody else’s,” (hey, it was the 60s) and that one year there was “mud wrestling.”  Here’s the convo:

Upper Valley Girl: Mud wrestling?! In the Beer Hall?

Knowledgeable Man:  No, in the field behind the barns.

UVG:  Oh, some kind of impromptu free-for-all after a rainstorm?

KM: Let’s just say this was not a fair-sanctioned event.

UVG:  It was ad hoc?

KM: It was more than that.

Sorry I missed it! Thank you, Knowledgeable Man. We didn’t get into the Girlie Tent years. Way my mom tells it, my great-grandfather was kicked out of the house in Barnard for having come home with lipstick on his collar from that particular “attraction.”  As my Dad tells it, it was something to do with a Girlie woman named “Sally.” What I wouldn’t give to have seen any of it, them in a lather in their old-tymey garb and pre-deodorant BO.

Children’s Decorated Vegetables

This, the 139th year, was the Year of the Chicken and Rabbit. I personally didn’t see much of either except in the overpriced box of greasy popcorn chicken I hauled around for 2 hours before chucking. You can only eat so many of those babies—unless you’re one of the Harringtons of Pomfret, in which case you can eat a whole bucket while watching the Larkin Contra Dancersfor hours on end.

Swine Show

Ah, the TWF. Well, another reason Vermont is so cool is the community vibe. I’ve been lonely in big cities but, upon achieving the Green Mountain State, never so. The laffs are early and often even at choir rehearsal, where everyone reverts to high school chorus behavior and a mosquito laden with EEE, West Nile Virus, and malaria can put the fear of God where it belongs—into the tenors.

So if you’re looking to relocate and you want nutty events and community—and hairy people in pilly sweaters with animal fur on them who don’t dye their hair or shave properly (Green Mountain casual) —it could be for you. It’s also a good place to get zuked. That’s when you leave your car unlocked and someone puts a giant, unwanted zucchini in your back seat. Lock your doors. Good day.

Giantest Squash competition.

How Many Barbies is Enough Barbies?

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They’re so…Barbie.

~ To form a kick line?

~ To constitute a quorum?

~ To populate a viable sweat shop?

~ To unionize?

~ To be just one too many stinkin’ Barbies?

In college, with the help of the drunken tarts I called friends, I created a prototype for Party Barbie®. She had one broken high heel, chipped nail polish, bruises, Walk of Shame hair, torn clothing, a cigarette glued to her hand (or was it a fatty?), a black eye ~ you get the picture.  Mattel wasn’t interested.  Bunch of stiffs.

Just to See How it Turns Out

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Look at that little face.

Sometimes you come across something so interesting you want to stick around just to see how it turns out. This can be true of children.

Not everyone agrees, of course.  A friend once said: “I’m not really interested in children I’m not related to.”

Pretty sure I’m related to Spike here. He crawled many feet to see me. That’s family! I wish I could see how he turns out.