Vermont is a land of abandoned and derelict mills, large, brick, mid-nineteenth century structures that were once the heart of the American Industrial revolution, a revolution fueled by the arrival of the railroad. We were awed by the size and number of these old factories and mills as we rode north. They dominated the otherwise two-story silhouette of each village we passed. A few were, we could see, being repurposed into clusters of shops or antique malls, keeping in character with the buildings’ age, hearkening back to a previous, and presumably better, time. Mostly, they were just shells of an era passed.

Our time in White River Junction left us with mixed feelings. The hotel needed work. Lydia did laundry one day in the section used as a hostel. The laundry was down a back, yet to be renovated hall, where the old plank floor buckled in the middle and the boards sagged alarmingly when stepped on. The elevator was eerily quiet and slug slow. It was impossible to either hear any mechanical noise indicating movement or actually feel any movement. The buttons were hardly responsive and I confess to standing semi-patiently inside until the doors opened, only to find myself on the same floor.

The other attendees were primarily from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Most were couples older than us. With the exception of a quiet rancher from Texas, attending without his wife, all had what I consider the “back-east” personality. Lydia, kind and generous soul that she is, says that easterners feed off the social energy of those around them, they live for the social chatter and the give-and-take of discussion. I, being perhaps less kind and generous, just find them loud, mindless, and annoying. I will grant that we did meet a few pleasant, charitable souls, who were quiet and thoughtful in their conversation. We sought them out as dinner companions. (I am confounded as to how the dour, taciturn culture of the Pilgrim fathers engendered the shout-in-your-face demeanor of the eastern seaboard citizenry). It is early as I write and I am perhaps being a tad curmudgeonly. I grew up with a father who endured the Great Depression in Kansas and, like him, I tend to be a bit stoic in my expression. Smiling is not something I do naturally. In any case, when it comes to people, I prefer a Quaker meeting to a Baptist revival (politically incorrect, but a good metaphor nonetheless).

The speakers were generally disappointing. One was to speak of his life working for the railroads. Unfortunately, he chose to share pictures of every train station in the state with us, minus the 9 or 10 he still needed to achieve. Toward the end, he shared one anecdote of meeting Richard Nixon when he was visiting his daughters at a summer camp north of White River Junction. It was a bone to a hungry, or should I say sleepy pack of wolves and, as we stumbled to our beds, there was talk of force feeding him several of the under cooked muffins we found on our plates every morning as a kind of kharmic justice.

On another evening, we were to be treated to a discussion on advocating for renewed effort to improve passenger train infrastructure. The young man presenting had, until recently, been a state lobbyist for passenger train enthusiasts. He spoke inconclusively and erratically to us for an hour without completing a thought or argument. Had he been one of my sophomores giving a speech, I would have given him a C-, because I am charitable and he was young. It was a topic that interested me as I believe that there is a need for the expansion of passenger service in the U.S. for both economic and environmental reasons. I was disappointed and left early feigning an urgent need for the restroom. In truth, I was hoping to encounter one of his teachers in the lobby, so that I might discuss career changes with them.

The only two speakers of note were a Vermont filmmaker, whose film “A Man with a Plan” was a regional success (it’s hugely funny…find it and watch it) and a state senator who did a standup routine on Vermont humor, played the harmonica and guitar, and intentionally made us laugh, unlike other politicians who make us laugh without intending to do so.

On Friday morning, we said our goodbyes and waited at the station, outside because it was an “unattended” station. The train was late.

The Road