By Will O’Donnell
Part 1: The calm before the storm
After moving to Vermont in 2019 and spending the next few years there, I left for a brief outing in small town New York, just past the border. A beautiful lake, a quaint small community and an intense education in horticulture was no match for the obstacles I faced there.
In January 2023, I escaped the town and ran to the Green Mountains again where I knew my heart remained. A then friend offered me shelter from the storm.
Last year, I lived six different places. Trying to hang my hat anywhere I could afford in the state with intense unreliability. Whether it was an offer rescinded same day, an invitation met with no calls returned, a divorce leading to my room no longer being rentable a week after moving in, or an employee housing situation offered by someone with no perception of the local Killington heartbeat, I found myself hanging on for dear life. Clawing for even the most basic of dwellings, knowing that the motherland would eventually provide for me, if only I would stay true to my dreams and give her the utmost respect that she deserved.
With a brief, but significant outing near the law school in Royalton, I finally found an opening. Someone finally given me a real chance to get myself established. I was able to use this place and my part-time employment to really start to establish some roots. An acquaintance help me find additional employment, paid at the lowest rate in town (unfortunately), and put in some effort to help me establish myself amongst the Killington community. But I wasn’t a total newbie, I’d been hanging with them around town for a few years at that point. When my place near the law school had evolved into something untenable, they introduced me to one of their friends who was a prominent and respected member of the community who potentially had a place available in town.
I remember a blustery cold day in late spring, still wearing my Carhartt, venturing to a place I’d been a few times late night where it seemed only the hippest of locals hung out. As an “outsider,” all I knew was that this place was where the magic happened. Like a Madison Square Garden, Grand Old Opry, or Red Rocks, this spot was etched into Killington lore as the “locals” spot. The place where certain bands would play that wouldn’t dare touch another local stage. The place where crowds from all walks of life could come in and feel like part of the group. Rowdy pool shark exhibitions. Great music. Sassy, but professional bar tenders. Events all the time that brought locals together. And a kitchen that could bang out the craziest of no-warning bus drop-offs that could empty the building as quickly as it filled, dishing out local favorites like French onion soup, the only gyro in town, the perfect French fry and barbecue sourced right out front from the Iron Pig.
Typical of a ski-town, this was also the place that some locals went to stretch their legs within their open relationship, while remaining ever fearful of commitment well into their 50s-plus, terrified it would interfere with their own independence or compromise their need to stay forever young.
I remember settling on the patio with my acquaintance and my potential future friend and landlord. What I experienced was the most humble, yet bizarre amalgam of unrequited confidence mixed with the purest version of a rags to riches hero who certainly worked for every penny. While I had heard stories from locals, nothing could have prepared me for this meeting.
This Rubik’s Cube of a man invited me to sit with him and a few of his friends. I was being scanned up and down with the utmost scrutiny, while being accepted fully for exactly who I am. The simultaneous energy of a disappointed dad, paired with the perfect mix of an adoring best friend.
This was the SATs of community acceptance. The litmus test proving that the NO DB sticker I saw early on wasn’t just a suggestion.
He spoke of my Carhartt, my lack of haircut and my general relaxed demeanor, paired with my commitment to paying dues, my treating house as a home, and dedication to hustling. As we got to know each other, he decided that I was going to be a good fit as a roommate for his sous chef.
This young family man is the perfect mix of well-deserved confidence and a sense of humility that couldn’t be matched by the hero of any Disney film. Old country songs by Willie, Hank and Waylon only briefly touch on the level of gentleman that I was introduced to when I first met this young man who was 10 years my junior. As the move-in process started and I saw how the three of us supported each other, I knew I had passed the test. Not only was I here, but my chance to be part of a community I admired was finally here.
Look for Part 2 on the ‘The Flood’ in next week’s edition.
