Last Saturday evening Paul and I stepped out of our car into the early evening light in downtown Montpelier, the capital city of Vermont. As it always does after a long winter, the summer air felt soft and smelled sweet as we crossed the street to our favorite Nepalese restaurant. We were seated in the window giving us a great vantage point to watch Main Street go by.
Living in a world that feels bigger every day makes us appreciate our rural community. In the midst of a global pandemic there is something enormously comforting in the familiar. This place is small enough that we can call our Main Street downtown. Saturday mornings we pop into our local bakery for a sandwich on ciabatta for Paul and an almond croissant and hot chocolate for me. Nothing begins a weekend like powdered sugar on my face. Most Saturdays require a trip to the hardware store where Tip knows where absolutely everything is and exactly how it’s used. His father owned the hardware store for years and now, even having been bought by a larger company, Tip remains a fixture. He knows we have a phone number on file and welcomes us by name.
Sometimes we split and I head across the street to my favorite clothing store. The moment I walk in Kelly, the owner, greets me with a big smile and often a hug. We chat and catch up, then she offers suggestions of things she knows I will like. She helps with my Christmas shopping ensuring that I give the coolest gifts to my daughter in law.
Our coffee shop is across from Josh’s apartment. We run over and grab lemonade in the summer afternoons and wander down the street enjoying the pucker. There is a burger joint in town and if I forget to add cheese, I often find a tin-foil-wrapped slice or two in the bag. Paul the owner, is watching out for me and my cholesterol.
The feed store is manned with several experts. Robin is all business when it comes to what is the best feed for chickens beginning to lay eggs, but friendly enough that we spend a few minutes talking about dogs and her new haircut before I head out to the truck. The guy who loads the fifty pound bags wears shorts all year round and we laugh about it when I am wearing wool.
Leslie shares my sister’s name and if nobody else is behind me in line at the grocery store, we talk about her upcoming heart procedure and she slips me a paper bag at no charge. OJ is the front manager but hops onto a register when needed and we chat about what new movies are coming into the large theaters in the big city of Burlington. Rick is our pharmacist and instead of pointing me toward products I’ve asked about, comes right out from behind the counter and walks me over. He leans in conspiratorially, and lets me know if I can buy store brand and get the same results. Alan stocks shelves in the toothpaste isle. I always wave hello as I pass him and we chat, Vermont-style, for a minute about the weather.
In a small town you have your bookstore, bakery, grocery, pharmacy, hardware store, movie theater and candy store. You know not only where to get something, but who you will get it from.
Sitting in the window of our restaurant eating Tikka Masala, it is pretty much inevitable that someone will knock on the window and give a wave on their way to the Savoy Theater next door. When our server brings the bill, she has a few red and white peppermints plopped on top of it, “I know you like these,” she smiles.