Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Typical Vermont countryside

Day One: Leaving Flatland (Saturday, Sept. 20)

We only had a few near accidents on the way to Vermont. They were usually avoided by my shouting, "Dad! Look out!"

My dad is too easily distracted while driving. He may, for example, become fascinated with an historic building and forget about the guy in front of him who likes to ride the brake down the mountainside.

For most of the way, we listened to the mix CDs I'd made just for the occasion. Dad liked them, so I was successful. He kept saying, "You and I have similar tastes in music," not realizing I'd geared my music selections to suit us both.

When it came time for lunch, we decided to stop at a diner in Oneonta, New York. I was a little worried about leaving my dog, Una, in the car but we figured we'd eat at the counter, where we could get served right away.

But when we got inside, we discovered there was no counter. Instead, there was a line. So we drove to Wendy's, where I got Una a plain hamburger and fed it to her in the parking lot while I ate my salad.

The rest of the trip went smoothly. We ran out of my mix CDs and switched to prerecorded CDs, of which I'd brought plenty: four travel cases full.

I was driving for the last leg, which was good because only Dad could read his handwritten directions to my brother's place.

As it was, we still missed a turn. But doubling back, Una got very excited, sticking her nose out the window and sniffing the air. She knew we were getting close, even though she'd never been there before.

When we told my brother about this, he suggested that maybe his scent had lingered on the nearby street sign. Apparently, he'd gone down earlier in the day to correct the sign, which some mischief-maker had turned to face the wrong direction.

When we got close, we slowed down to look for the small Cape Cod with turquoise siding. It was easy to spot: my brother sat in a chair out front, gesturing to show us where to pull in. This would seem more miraculous, had we not called from about 30 miles away to say we were nearly there.

We got the tour of the house, which my brother and his wife have been fixing up. As he led us through each room, I could remember all the details he'd told me about the work they'd done.

Then came the exchange of presents. Both my brother and I have birthdays in September. He gave me two things: a dog bed for Una and some massage cream. Both are greatly appreciated.

My brother liked the card I'd made him, which included a picture of the two of us, taken at Mom's birthday party in July.

"I look insane," he said.

"You always look like that. I have tons of pictures of you looking insane."

We'll have to mail his birthday gift, though. He had specifically requested some copies of the ancestor photos at my dad's place. I'd asked Dad to take them to the photo studio and have them reproduced. He hadn't had time before the vacation, but didn't mention this until we were on the drive up there.

After a quick call to The Gryphon to let him know we'd survived the journey, it was off to Friendlies. There, we got hideously slow service and I discovered a way to annoy my brother: call people in Vermont "Vermontinians" instead of "Vermonters." I knew the right term, I was just being weird. In exchange, he called me a "Flatlander," with a smile on his face. He knows me too well.

My brother's wife told us she is trying to find a Stephen King book she's been reading. She can't find it anywhere, so she's thinking of asking St. Anthony. She told us about how her grandmother used to punish St. Anthony. If she couldn't find something after asking him, she'd turn him to the wall.

"Didn't she just lose more stuff, then?" I asked.

She said her grandmother didn't see it that way. If it was something important, St. Anthony could be turned to the wall for months.

I suggested asking aloud that whoever had taken it give it back. "Of course," I said,"it's probably not finished reading it yet."

"Yeah," my brother agreed. "When you're reading the last chapter, you just can't put it down."

The waiter made us wait forever, screwed up the order and then had to be asked four times to bring a container for leftovers. He redeemed himself by saying, with a smile, "Is there anything else I can forget for you?" We tipped him anyway. Which, when you think about it, is probably just reinforcing bad behavior.

I'm writing this in a car on a dirt road, which makes my handwriting even worse than normal. I hope I can read it later. If not, I'll make stuff up.

More of the Green Mountain Journey:

October 1, 2003 - Lay of the Land

October 2, 2003 - Mountain Memorials

October 3, 2003 - Musical Rain

October 4, 2003 - Good Morning Shelburne

October 6, 2003 - Shelburne Revisited

October 7, 2003 - Birthday Bro

October 8, 2003 - Handkerchief Tales

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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