Editor’s note: This op-ed is by Bob Stannard, a Manchester resident and a lobbyist for Citizens Action Network, an environmental group that opposes the relicensure of Vermont Yankee.
Thanks to a guy who is from Fall River, Mass., and is half French-Canadian and half Portuguese I learned about Hardwick, Vt. Yes, I agree; this does seem a little unlikely.
While sitting on the couch with my wife, Alison, channel surfing, I came across a show I thought she’d like to watch — “Emeril.” I, of course, would rather watch something more entertaining on a Friday night like cage fighting, but hey, I can compromise.
It was exactly 8 p.m., and there was the renowned chef on TV, standing in front of this beautiful, scenic background, saying, “Hi, I’m Emeril and I’m standing in Hardwick, Vermont.”
Say what? My interest was piqued. He went on to talk about a movement in Hardwick to vertically integrate the food chain and add new meaning to the notion of “Buy Local.”
By the end of the show I had decided that I was going to the Northeast Kingdom (once the snow melted) to have dinner at Claire’s Restaurant and check out the food scene in Hardwick. (Perhaps I should say “IF” the snow melts.) Without telling Alison, I booked a room at the Kimball House; perhaps the only B&B in Hardwick, for the third weekend in June 2010.
You’re right, it rained that weekend. But ya know when you’re on a mini-vacation you don’t really care if it’s raining, do you? OK, you do care if it’s cold and rainy. It was cold, too. All the same when we left Manchester and headed north, I was excited, and Alison was mystified (not the first time for her after living with me for 40 years).
When we saw the exit sign for Hardwick, Alison asked, “Are we going to Hardwick?” The TV show of many months ago sprang into her mind. She was thinking that this could be interesting. I just smiled.
We checked into the Kimball House and the proprietor, Sue Holmes, watched as I signed in.
“I see your name is Stannard,” she said.
“Yup,” I replied.
“You do know that Stannard, Vt., is only a few miles from here, Don’t you?” Sue said.
As if coming to the localvore Mecca wasn’t enough, I now found myself very near my namesake town. I hadn’t been to Stannard since 1973, right after I graduated from college, but that’s another story.
It was about 6 p.m. on Saturday, and we had dinner reservations at Claire’s in downtown Hardwick for 7 p.m. I thought an hour was plenty of time to go find Stannard. We left Hardwick on Rt. 15 and turned on to Rt. 16 towards Greensboro Bend (Greensboro Bend is not to be confused with Greensboro, which interestingly enough is six miles away and nowhere near Greensboro Bend).
I found Greensboro Bend interesting in the same way I found reading Stephen King’s “The Stand” interesting. The town, I guess I would call it a town, although it appeared to be more like a place, was completely deserted. I could see the abandoned rail line and the long deserted (and very possibly haunted) train station, which presumably gave this town its name.
Way down the end of the long street I saw something in motion. Whew, there was some sign of life here. Within minutes, the biker came into view. He was soaring down this main street on the back wheel of his bike. He was all of 15. His baseball hat was on sideways and pulled way down over his ears leaving us to wonder if he had ears or if the virus that had wiped out the town had caused them to fall off. His T-shirt sported a bleeding skull. He had two earrings in his left ear. He looked like he might have been the only rapper in Greensboro Bend, but I wouldn’t know as he was the ONLY person I saw in Greensboro Bend.
“Let’s just keep moving,” Alison said with worry in her voice.
“Are you kidding? I’ve got to meet this kid,” was my reply. For the zillionth time my wife wished she had married someone else…presumably with more money.
I stopped and rolled down the window. The front wheel of the bicycle came to an abrupt stop next to my car. This intense, young Vermonter looked at me much in the same way I would have looked at the driver of a car with New Jersey plates when I was 15; back in the ‘60s. It was not a look of encouragement.
“Hey, wassup? Can you tell me how to get to Stannard, Vt.,?” I asked, desperately trying not to sound like a tourist in my own state.
“Why would you want to go to Stannard?” Mr. Bloody-Skull T-shirt asked.
“My name is Bob Stannard,” I said offering no other explanation. After all, I, too, am a Vermonter.
Mr. Bloody-Skull T-shirt gave me quite the eye. “Well, you head down that road over there and go across the bridge. Don’t go over the old bridge; go over the new bridge. When you go over the bridge the road will bend around to the left, then to the right and will start to go up the hill, where you’ll see the big tree right near the road….”
These were perfect Vermont directions. Alison was beginning to think that she’d never see her children again. Mr. Bloody-Skull T-shirt stopped in the middle of the sentence and looked into my eyes giving me a bit of a start.
“It ain’t like it’s a town, ya know. I mean, people live there ‘n all, but it ain’t a real town. You got family there or something?” he asked.
“Nope. Just curious,” I replied. Mr. Bloody-Skull T-shirt seemed, for the moment, concerned for our health and welfare. I’m not much of a gambler, but I’d bet no one had ever asked him for directions to Stannard before. He seemed confused if not a bit frightened.
“Well, OK, but it ain’t a town. Just some buildings and a couple of churches,” he said.
We headed toward the bridges. At first glance it wasn’t that easy to distinguish between the old bridge and the new bridge. Had I been from Jersey I probably would have turned around. I wasn’t easily discouraged because I’m a Vermonter, and being discouraged is an experience we’re all used to.
Up the hill we went. Before too long we came upon a happy sight; the Stannard Town Cemetery. I stopped the car. Alison was anxious.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“Looking for dead Stannards,” was my reply and we got out of the car and began the search for the name Stannard on a headstone. Now you would think that in the Town of Stannard it might be tough to find someone alive with that name, and easy to find someone dead bearing the town’s name. We looked at every headstone and there was not one that bore the name Stannard.
There was disappointment No. 1. By now it was getting late and we had to get back for dinner. Were it not for the fact that I do enjoy a good meal, I would have been inclined to continue this journey. (I’m still learning to postpone needs and gratifications.)
The next day we checked out, and we were going to head back home; but not the way we came. I had to give Stannard another try. I announced to Alison that we were going to go back up what I learned was Stannard Hill Rd. in hopes of finding the thriving metropolis of Stannard.
We drove past the cemetery (I felt a wistful twinge as we drove by) and continued up the mountain. Yes there were houses. Not many, but some. There had to be more. After a little ways there it was — the first sign of municipal life. It was the town shed, complete with a red dump truck. Now we were getting somewhere.
If a town has a town shed it’s got to have, uh, what, a sand pile at least, which means there are roads and who knows where they lead. We kept going.
Before too long, there it was in all its glory: The Stannard Town Hall, right across the dirt road from the church. Well, I guess it was a church, because it looked like a church, but it may very well have been the local horse shoe club as there were four or five pits in the side yard.
Not being all that religious a person, (or all that good at horse shoes) I opted to check out the Town Hall first.
With its peeling paint, presumably rotting sills and the giant star gracing the peak of the gable end of the building facing the road, it was beautiful. The bulletin board to the left of the front door reminded the reader when the Selectboard and school boards would meet. With the possible exception of the announcement of the appointment of a local man to serve as fire warden, there didn’t appear to be a lot of activity at the bi-monthly Selectboard meetings.
Stannard may not be a lot of things, but you can darn well rest assured it is peaceful. The town was arguably quieter than the cemetery we visited the day before. (Actually, there may have been more signs of life in the cemetery.)
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re sitting there reading this saying to yourself, “Boy, Bob you sure do live a pretty exciting life” and yup, you’d be right.
At first blush it may not seem like there’s a lot going on in Stannard and Mr. Bloody-Skull T-shirt might have been correct when he said, “It ain’t really a town, ya know,” but it certainly is a place. And although there are many places in the world where one would want to go visit — like Paris, or New York or Rome, let me assure you that there is no place like Stannard, Vt.
Much like the rest of this great state, there’s more going on than meets the eye. There’s so much to do here….and like channel surfing, one thing usually leads to another. Just pay real close attention when a young Vermonter gives you directions.
