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Dwight Goes to One More Meeting

Tomorrow is the first Tuesday in March, the traditional Town Meeting Day across Vermont. If you have never been to a real town meeting and think they are what you see politicians stage on television, you should make the trip to see one. At Town Meeting the residents of a town are convened as a legislative body who, under the guidance of a moderator and Roberts Rules of Order, hold sole authority over town matters on the agenda. Everything from fire trucks and road salt to budgets and even resolutions to impeach the President are debated and voted on. It is democracy in its finest and most concentrated form. The Selectboard -- the elected officers of the town of which I am a part -- sit impotently at the front of the room to answer questions and defend proposals placed on the agenda. This year the school board convenes in the morning, the town in the afternoon. There's a lunch in between prepared by the Grangers of ham and potato salad which we put on top of the morning's homemade donuts from Lester Dunklee. Dark stains appear on our dog-eared personal copies of the Town Report.

One of the highest honors a town can bestow upon one of its residents is to have the Town Report dedicated to them. This honor is usually reserved for long-serving town officers when they retire or especially beloved residents upon their deaths. Last year it was dedicated to my neighbor, Dwight Miller, who was killed the summer before last when his truck rolled over him while he was cutting brush. I was invited to write that dedication and I present it here once more in Dwight's honor and in celebration of the Town Meetings that meant so much to him and mean so much to all Vermonters.

Dwight Read Miller, Jr.

February 23, 1924 – August 23, 2008

In Fond Memory

“We were going to grow peaches up here in ’88,” says Dwight to a new neighbor while they stood on a breezy hilltop. The neighbor might be forgiven for thinking this was a twenty-year-old story, but as Dwight elaborated it became clear the year in question was 1888, and that when this walking warehouse of local history said “we” he meant every person who had ever farmed or thought of farming this land. And he was related to all of them.

What Dwight Miller and his ancestors and his progeny meant and mean to the Town of Dummerston can’t be captured in this modest dedication. Perhaps one day a shelf full of books will accomplish it. For now, some warm impressions will have to do.

Dwight was a “meeting man”. He belonged to more organizations, farming and otherwise, than most of us can name. But of all the meetings he attended none meant more to him than Town Meeting. He was known in later years to return from warm Florida vacations in order to slog through the parking lot slush to Town Meeting.

One never knew when or about what, but at some point or two or three in the meeting Dwight would stand up and speak his piece. It was usually a story followed by an opinion. Sometimes an opinion followed by a story. And sometimes you couldn’t tell which was what. This was a man who gave a lot of thought to a lot of things.

While versed in the traditions of his family and his trade, Dwight remained an innovator all his farming life and was forever puzzling out better ways to do what he’d always done. He had strong opinions but would change them when presented with information that proved him wrong. This didn’t happen very often. He had a lot of information of his own.

Not long ago the Board of Civil Authority was misguided enough to try to change the official polling place from the church basement to the school. This didn’t last. Never had a chance. At the very next meeting Dwight spoke passionately about the wisdom of leaving it be. When anyone starts a testimony at your meeting with the words, “In 1775 …” You know the rest of your evening has just been spoken for.

Philosopher farmer. Man of faith. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Singer. Chocoholic. Brush cutter extraordinaire. However you knew Dwight Miller, he knew you too. He paid attention to people. He collected friends like shiny stones. He kept track of people who shared his birthday and called them all every year at ungodly times of the morning like a good farmer would.

He once welcomed a new family to town with a parable. It starts off like a joke, but doesn’t end up that way.

There’s a farmer cutting brush alongside the road when a stranger rolls up in his wagon. The farmer tips his hat and asks the stranger if he needed help.

“I’m looking to settle here in town and wonder if you can tell me how the folks are around here?”

The farmer dusts his hat off and says, "How were they where you come from?"

“The worse sort,” replies the stranger. “Liars and gossips. Two-faced and mean. I couldn’t get away fast enough.”

“Eyup,” says the farmer, sadly. “That’s just the way you’ll find them here.”

The stranger shakes his head and rolls on.

A few days later another stranger in another wagon comes up the road and waves to the farmer out in the field. When he reaches the fence the stranger calls out, “I’ll be moving my family into town soon and I was hoping you could tell me how the people are around here?”

Once again the farmer asks in return, “How were they where you come from?"

“Oh, they were the best sort. I hated to leave. Do anything for a neighbor. Give you the shirts right off their backs.”

“Eyup,” says the farmer with a nod, “That’s just how you’ll find them here.”

Story or opinion? One never could quite tell with Dwight.

Town Meeting will not be the same without Dwight Miller and neither will the town. He cannot be replaced. He can only be remembered. And he will be – as the best sort.

To Bleet or Not To Bleet

I haven't felt much like blogging lately. Or tweeting. I know that's not supposed to stop me. Thousands of determined blogger/tweeters -- bleeters? -- pound out their thoughts whether or not there's any need. The Twitter prompt "What's Happening?" can usually be answered with the blank that's already there. More of us should leave it at that.

Part of the problem is that when I'm doing something that is interesting to me I am almost never in front of my computer. It is where I sit when nothing else is happening. When I come across something startling, ironic or hysterical out in the world my first instinct is not to pull out my iPhone and pass it on. I imagine people on the other end of my bleets are absorbed in startling, ironic and hysterical episodes of their own and don't need second hand ones. That's why I am such a piss poor bleeter. I actually believe that you, dear friends and followers, have lives. Is this crazy or what?

So when I get into these drippy moods of mine that match the news and weather I lose complete confidence in my ability to entertain you. Come to think of it, it's not a lack of confidence that I will so much as a surety that I won't. So I spare you the attempt.

Roy Blount Jr. once described writer's block as the fear of writing something horrible. It can be a healthy fear sometimes my fellow bleeters. Embrace it. I'm going to go for a walk in the woods and look for something hysterical.

Thoughts on the Independent Voter from a Dead Gadfly

"We are reformers in spring and summer; in autumn and winter we stand by the old -- reformers in the morning, conservatives at night. Reform is affirmative, conservatism is negative; conservatism goes for comfort, reform for truth."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson, writer and philosopher (1803-1882)

Not-So-Great Depression

In case you're wondering why you feel that way, today is the most depressing day of the year. The British have studied this. If January 24 is the most depressing day it implies, of course, that there are others. If you are generally depressed it might tell you that of all the days you feel like that, this one is the worst. As if people with depression need any help deciding why any particular day is lousy.

I suppose you can put anything in a news story and it takes on some authority: The Democrats have lost their way. The Republicans have lost their minds. Balloon boy fantasizes about Angelina Jolie. How your cats are plotting to kill you.

Some things get to you more than others. It doesn't surprise that any young boy would fantasize about Jolie, mother figure that she is. Or that either political party has deteriorated in any imaginable way. Every member of the Democratic party could spontaneously combust and we would think, "that's just like them." Republicans could encircle the National Mall wearing only adult diapers while waving sharp sticks and we would shake our heads and flip back to Law and Order reruns. Cats plotting against you? Of course they are.

But I'm resisting the idea that today is the most depressing day of the year. I got up this morning and took a long snow shoe through the woods and back on a perfectly still, crisp, Vermont Sunday. Granted, some of you got up this morning and strolled down a warm sunny beach, but that doesn't depress me. You might have stepped on a sharp stone and got an infection. It may not be infected yet, but you never know. My feet are fine.

I was far more depressed last night than today. Take-out pizza and Night at the Museum II with the boys. Saturday nights used to be a lot sexier. I'm not too old to remember that. The prospect of tomorrow is more depressing than even that -- Monday. Lunches to make. Kids to prod and bully into the car. I think there is a doctor appointment in there somewhere. Tomorrow - yuck. Today - I'll take it.

Have a good day. Keep your eye on that foot.

Underpants Never Strike Twice

If the foiled terrorist on flight 253 had tried to light his underpants on fire during the middle part of the trip, I wonder if they'd now be making us stay in our seats with our hands in our laps for that hour? In eight-and-a-half years of watching our crack security professionals' attempts to keep from happening the thing that just happened this one wins the prize. Some guy fiddles in his lap with some odds and ends he brought on board and nearly detonates explosives sewn into his underpants. If this were truly a viable way to bring down an airplane you'd think that people who are paid to sit around and think about these things would have thought that might be a possibility and put these restrictions in place before somebody actually tried it. It's not like it was a brilliant or unlikely scenario. Here's a not-so-brilliant and likely guess at how that conversation went at the TSA:

"Somebody could hide this powder in their underpants and detonate it on their approach into a major US airport."

"Yea, we know. Let's wait until it happens and then then make sure it doesn't happen again. At least not on the approach"

"What if someone tries it at the beginning of a flight?"

"We'll deal with that when it happens. It's not our job to prevent these specific things. It's our job to prevent these specific things from happening twice in a row. Relax. Have donut."

So now we'll all sit with our hands folded neatly over our throbbing bladders like a bunch of school kids for the last hour of a flight for no good reason except to demonstrate with what precision the people in charge of our safety can recognize what it was they missed the first time. Speaking strictly for myself this does not make me feel safer. This makes me feel like the people we're counting on to watch our backs have no idea what they're doing, or where this thing is heading next.

Travel well. And safe.

Let it Snow

A classic Nor'easter is bearing down on New England. Unlike our urban brethren to the east and south who listen to the grave tones of their weathercasters' voices and crouch behind their snow shovels, Vermonters like this sort of thing. Kids dust off the sleds, skis get fresh wax, chairlifts lurch into action across the Green Mountains and town road crews start adding up the overtime. The only disappointment we're likely to feel in this most recent "historic event" is that the really big accumulations will peter out before they get here leaving us with a measly six or ten inches.

The downside is that my older son comes home from Seattle tomorrow via a series of eastern airports all likely to be closed by midnight tonight. That part's not so great, but he's young and resilient and I know I'll see him soon -- even if he does have the patterns of airport seating etched into his lovely face.

This week leading up to Christmas is always one of tender domestics and nostalgia. Cooking smells and rustling garland will conjure childhood memories thought lost. More innocent times project from every colored light. This is why it's called a season of joy and this is also why people get depressed at this time of year. Here's to more of the former and less of the last.

I will part with some shameless commerce. 'Tis the season, I suppose. Just in time for Christmas my publisher has released a new retrospective collection of mine called, It's Just Like I Told You; 25 Years of Comments and Comic Pieces. You can read about it on the home page, or just go buy and download it at any number of online sellers: iTunes, audible.com, Random House Audio and others. Thanks for coming around like this. I enjoy these little chats of ours.