This time three years ago, I was contemplating my selecti...
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This time three years ago, I was contemplating my selection to become a member of the Host Advisory Board, with great hope...
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All of us here are experienced at making people feel welcome. The truly special hosts create an experience for guests where they feel someone’s here for them as they explore a new place, whether they need us or not. As we welcomed guests to our barn apartment and the homes we host for folks who live out of town, this has been a year that has tested that idea.
I logged on to my favorite warehouse shopping site to put in my regular order for toilet paper and found there was none to be had. Paper towels were limited. Bleach and Lysol were gone. I scrambled and found a palette of toilet paper. It wasn’t the fluffy kind. It was the kind where each roll is individually wrapped. It seemed perfect for what I thought was ahead as I set out to prepare each rental as if it were for The Boy in the Plastic Bubble. “Don’t judge me,” I told my friends, “I can’t be out.”
We found shoe covers and disposable masks, latex-free gloves in two sizes and, oddly, berry-basil scented Lysol for 10 bucks a can. We studied cleaning protocols and ordered separate mops, vacuums and supplies for each home. We wondered whether we could hold our breath for long enough to inspect an entire dwelling and sprayed our oddly scented Lysol with abandon. We realized how frequently we touched our faces!
The rental calendars crumbled and then suddenly filled again, with guests whose offices and children’s schools had closed. Vermont seemed safe. The ski resorts were still open. Why not have a second spring break? As fast as they filled, they emptied again, as the ski resorts shut their doors. An ER doctor friend called. “Please stop renting to people from out of town. Our beds will be full. We won’t have the staff or ventilators to save them.” The vacationers stopped coming.
As we settled these new guests in to what had been vacation rental properties, we watched some of the neighbors become nervous. Where were they from? Were they bringing the virus with them? How long were they staying? Assurances were made that those arriving would quarantine. And they did.
Rumors started flying that the Governor of Vermont was going to close down the state by executive order. As potential guests scrambled to find lodging, it became evident we had a new kind of visitor, “the sudden resident.” They came in droves, some to be near family, some as first time visitors, and Vermont, albeit cautiously, welcomed them to “the brave little state.”
In 1928, Vermont native, then President, Calvin Coolidge made a speech after visiting home to survey the damage from a devastating flood. It is from this speech that Vermont earned the moniker, “the brave little state.”
‘Vermont is a state I love. I could not look upon the peaks of Ascutney, Killington, Mansfield, and Equinox, without being moved in a way that no other scene could move me. It was here that I first saw the light of day; here I received my bride, here my dead lie pillowed on the loving breast of our everlasting hills. I love Vermont because of her hills and valleys, her scenery and her invigorating climate. But most of all because of her people. They are a race of pioneers who have almost beggared themselves in the service of others. If the spirit of Liberty should vanish from other parts of our Union and the support of our institutions should languish, it could all be replenished from the generous store held by the people of the brave little state of Vermont.’
As each of these sudden residents emerged from their 14 days of isolation (and Netflix binging) they began to explore as if they had landed on the moon. The questions followed. When will the snow melt? What do you mean there’s no Whole Foods? What is this “transfer station” you refer to? How does this composting thing work? Where do we score some toilet paper?
We watched as guests bought milk and cheese and butter from Mansfield Dairy, traveled to Craftsbury for frozen chicken directly from the farm and tossed around newly acquired lingo like “mud season.” The towns people came together, apart, of course, to take care of one another and the sudden residents as well. A local shopkeeper discovered there was a run on jigsaw puzzles, and put a shelf outside her store where people could exchange for a fresh one. A committee was formed to organize donations and delivery of meals and items to people in need. Volunteers sewed and mailed two masks to every household. I happily shared my hoarded toilet paper.
All over town, hundreds of little signs popped up, made by a mysterious someone now called “the sign fairy,” reminding us that we can do hard things.
As the weather changed, and the world seemed a little bit safer, some of our “sudden residents” moved on. For a while we were able to 
At our own home we turned to our front porch for comfort, overlooking the Worcester mountain range, looking at Mt. Putnam, Worcester, Stowe Pinnacle and Hunger Mountains. With so much change and struggle in the world, we have focused, when we can, on the natural beauty around us, purchasing a propane heater and electric blankets in anticipation of in-person connections with others in the outdoors all winter. 
Some of our sudden residents are still here as we buckle down for this next round, all of us holding out hope that we don’t lose anyone else before these vaccines, these miracles, can work their magic. (Did I say magic? I meant their science.) Our local school enrollment has swelled. Some have moved out of our lodgings and purchased homes and snow tires, ready to experience their first full winters in the brave little state.
Like everyone else, everywhere, we have no idea when things will get back to normal. 2020 has seemed to be a year of extraordinary losses. While the virus has exacted a tremendous toll, it seems to me people around us have experienced many other struggles and losses as well. As my sister the psychotherapist reminds me, there is no hierarchy of suffering. 
