In Vermont, schools have their winter break at the end of February. The bonus has always been that Tuesday, March 4 is Town Meeting Day so kids have no school on Monday and Tuesday of the week following vacation.
Every town in the state used to have Town Meeting: now it is optional, the town can decide whether or not that tradition continues. We feel very fortunate that it remains a fixture here. A lot of proposals are up and there are two methods for voting: Australian Ballot or in person at the meeting.
Town Meeting heralds back to the time of early settlers who, in traditional British style, would gather to argue town decisions. Seeing neighbors, discussing poorly maintained roads, and hot lunch are all involved, but arguing is the thing that defines Town Meeting.
Ours is held in the local school gymnasium. Next week the gym will be the site of the annual Pie Breakfast and, in the evening, basketball games. The long white lunch tables are pushed aside and a mix of plastic and metal folding chairs are set out in rows. People begin meandering in early so as to have the chance to chat with neighbors that they may not have seen since hibernating or possibly last year’s meeting. Because Town Meeting takes place during early mud season, standard dress code includes some type of muck boot, flannel covered limbs and a baseball cap bearing a statement that somehow reflects your political bent. Beards optional.
The moderator not only has many meetings under their belt, but usually a lot of additional years as well. There is plenty of time spent explaining the necessary training to be a moderator. Inherent in this seems to be bragging rights about not being able to hear or see particularly well: this also works as an explanation for ignoring your question. Roberts Rules apply and the term “Roberts Rules” can, and often is, evoked as an objection for almost anything. People love to incur the wrath of the moderator by speaking out of turn, often twisting themselves in their chairs so that their joke about what is being said is heard by everyone in the room. Even the speaking doesn’t anger the moderator more than a roomful of people laughing out of turn.
If you have never attended a town meeting, they seem very quaint, innocuous at first. But soon you realize that politics are being served up before lunch. The select board will sneak articles onto the back of the agenda with the thought that many people will have left before voting. However you can’t fool all of the people all of the time and often there is a hand raised quickly asking if we could move that article back to the front to be voted on so that everyone can have the chance to weigh in. The head of the select board peers over his half glasses and, through gritted teeth, agrees.
At the half way mark the lunch tables come out. This is my favorite part and I stand on tip toes in Muck boots looking for what is offered. I’m always rooting, usually in vain, for the egg salad sandwich and the traditional chips. There is, as in any self respecting cafeteria, a hot option and this year the sixth graders have cooked chicken and biscuits, a New England staple, and pie, of course. Lunch practice for the pie breakfast.
The booths for the Australian Ballot voting are set up just around the corner in the town office. The town office is in the same building as the police station, historical society and is adjacent to the town skating rink. You walk into the office and there is a card table with two volunteers anxiously waiting for someone to come in. One of them has lists for names beginning with A-M, the other N-Z. I decide to play with their heads a little and walk straight down the middle. I feel a sense of disappointment from the woman on the left when I lean right to the P side. They both know me but avert their eyes pretending they don’t. I try to speak in a serious manner. There are no other voters when I walk in but soon behind me is the Governor with his detail beside him. He smiles and waves as he lives near us on the pond. I had just run into him the other day at the local market and stopped to say “hello.” I had tried not to look at what he was buying. Most of us can go into the store and surreptitiously purchase a snickers or maybe a triangle of pizza from the rotating machine in the corner. Not him, and I felt sad about that for him.
The voting booths have been set up by some committee and a stiff wind would blow them over. There are red, white and blue pinstriped curtains hanging protectively across the front of each and I would ask which one of the woman at the table made them, (I know she did) but maintain my voting decorum and just smile knowingly at them as I walk into the booth. When you emerge you are greeted by another volunteer and we again go through pretending that we don’t know each other as she directs me to place the three ballots into their respective counters. Chaos ensued this year when the man in front of me (yes, I knew him as well) put one of the blue ballots into the yellow ballot slot. A full-on chase into the parking lot brought him back to embarrassingly correct his unthinkable violation of sacred voting protocol.
As I left, I think there was only me, the governor and my offending neighbor at the polls. I walked back out into the afternoon sunshine and many voters were gathered next to their cars talking sugaring. I pulled out onto our dirt road, banged the truck over the newly formed ruts and headed home. I cracked my window and am pretty sure I could smell sap running.