I overslept one morning, and so, unable to make my own coffee, I ran into the general store on my way into work. Next to the assortment of Green Mountain Coffee is a large round table where the local guys sit and chat before working on the farms, in the woods, or wherever they take their pick up trucks after 9:00 AM.

Passing up the French vanilla flavored milk, I pumped out some hazelnut coffee—I know your opinion of me has just dropped a little, but it was a rough morning. While I topped off my cup, I heard it. That gentle bending of “r’s” and a subtle touch of an “h” at the end of an “a.” It’s not as hard as a Boston or Maine accent. It doesn’t sound like they’re prying an “ahr” sound out of words like park or farm which magically become “pahrk” or “fahrm.”

It’s a gentle accent mixed with the country twang that you’d expect to hear in any rural area, especially the mushing of “th” into a “d.” “I dunno, but somebody’s down ‘dere fishin’ fur trout.” To make matters worse, these guys talk fast and low, a style of their own. When I call our propane service guy—a local if there ever was one—I can hardly understand what he’s saying.

And that’s the problem, I want nothing more than to understand and to one day mimic the Vermont accent. This is a much bigger deal for me than it should be.

A huge part of my identify for years was my strong Philly accent. Water became “wooder,” “huge” became “uge,” and dog became “duawwg.” Ah, but it has since been lost when I moved north. Without my accent I feel uprooted, a wandering vagrant without an audible identity.

And so I am seeking a badge, a mark that I now belong in Vermont. I admit that I’m not a local, homegrown Vermonter, but I covet the chance to travel somewhere and have someone say, “You sound like you’re from New England.”

Then I’ll look them straight in the eyes and say, “Yep, I’m a Vermontah.”

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As my skis ground along the packed snow, sometimes jutting gracelessly to the side, I noticed a man standing in the middle of the trail at a key junction where five trails meet, including the Flatlander. He was most likely in his 60’s and hailed from a southern, suburban location by the way he waddled about on snowshoes. His wife stood under a small pavilion with a large trail map and a bin of maps hikers can take with them.

They looked lost, which is really hard to believe since every trail is marked with distinct colors, arrows to delineate the direction of each color, and the aforementioned maps. Thinking that I’d better hang around for a moment just in case, I pulled off to the side and tucked my hat in my pocket. That was all the prompting needed.

Shuffling over in his snow shoes, he asked, “Where is the black gate?” Directly behind the man loomed a large black gate leading to a few parking spots on the street. On the other end of the trail system, near the main parking lot, stood the remains of the former red gate and a newer gate that has green and black parts. Assuming he couldn’t possibly mean the gate directly behind him—which may have been giving him too much credit—I asked, “Where did you park?”

“By the black gate.”

“There’s a black gate right here” I responded with the appropriate pointing gesture, “but I’m guessing that you probably parked on the other end of the trail system by the old red gate and the new black and green one.”

“We just want to get back to the black gate.”

This guy had one thing on his mind and he wasn’t giving it up without a fight.

“We started at the black gate,” he continued, “and now we just want to get back to our car.”

Thinking we’d best eliminate some options, I asked, “So did you park at the bottom of this hill or did you park on the other end and take the Flatlander trail over here?”

“We didn’t park on this side,” the woman said, wresting control of the conversation from her husband who clearly was not up to the task. “We parked on the other side and took Flatlander over.”

“In that case,” I said, “your best bet is to take Flatlander right back. You could always take the Snicket trail, but that has a few small hills.”

“We just did the Flatlander,” the man said. “Can’t we just get to the black gate by going down the hill and cutting across another way?”

I was dumbfounded.

“You could go down that hill, but it’s steep and icy. Then you could turn left onto the road, but it’s narrow and cars drive very fast on it. When you get to Maple Hill road turn left and you’ll have to walk up a steep hill to get to the parking lot. The Flatlander trail will work much better.”

“Nah,” he said, “We’ll take the road back.”

Despite having spent close to $20 on snow shoe rentals, despite my warning about the safety of the road, and despite the logical conclusion that I had provided the shortest and easiest way to move from one point to another, the man and woman took off their snowshoes, picked them up, and began walking down the hill.

As I slipped along the Flatlander trail, I wondered why anyone would do something so odd. You can walk on a busy road and dodge cars anywhere, why keep it up when you paid to rent snowshoes and have some perfectly good trails to hike?

Perhaps part of the issue is we like to stick with the familiar. Trudging in the woods with snow shoes must have felt so odd, so uncomfortable for this man and woman—definitely at least for the man. They had maps and signs, good traction, and well-broken trails: this trail system is as far from rugged as you can get while remaining in the woods. But still, it was a leap for them. And so, even if the trail was a safer, easier option, they took the more dangerous path and harder hike because it was familiar. And that familiarity bred comfort, safety, and created even a sense of ease.

Taking note of the icy patches on the final hill before the parking lot, I zipped down, removed my skis, and set off for the local café to do a little writing. As I turned onto the main road, the narrow one chosen by the man, I saw them merrily trudging along single file, carrying their rental snowshoes, and clinging to the shoulder.

I’m sure they went home and told their friends about their adventurous hike in the Vermont woods. However, tucked away in a lonesome Vermont valley by a rushing stream, there is one person who tells a very different story.

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Two Years in Vermont
I grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, but marriage to a Vermont girl has pulled me out of my native habitat and into the quiet, but cheerful world of New England. After living in Vermont for two years, I have noticed a number of changes in my life. Here are just a few of them:

- I am now the most aggressive driver on the road.
- I am starting to wonder what it would be like to drive a snow mobile.
- I am growing more and more fond of Democrats and less so of Republicans.
- Killing deer seems like a great idea for a good time.
- I am bored with the way I predictably pronounce my “a’s” correctly.
- Poisoning mice is part of a regular evening at home.
- My laundry room always smells of decaying mice.
- I actually paid full price for a pair of Birkenstocks.
- Sometimes I wear socks with my Birkenstocks.
- My red car always looks gray because we live on a dirt road.
- I never wash my car from April through December because we live on a dirt road.
- I learned all kinds of stuff about raising and killing chickens from local farmers.
- Going to church can be theologically horrifying.
- I lust after wood stoves.
- I have an inexplicable urge to tap every maple tree I see.
- I am nurturing a grudge toward big box stores even if I still shop at them.
- The phrase “night life” means wild animals prowling in the evening.

And the bonus material:
- “Pitchin’ it out back” is a viable way of removing garbage.
- I know what “clogging” is.
- I check for energy efficient bulbs in public places.
- “Going Out” will at best involve a pot luck dinner.

If the mute button worked on people I would put it to good use in cafes, trains, planes, and other public places. Cell phone technology has advanced to the place where even people who shouldn’t have cell phones do. They treat the phone as an extension of their homes; as if holding a thin chunk of plastic with a chip in it brings a slice of home to wherever they are, enabling them to talk as loud as they please.

These cranked up conversations cover any number of inane topics that exhibit the listlessness and lack of creativity so rampant in our society. With so much drama, tragedy, and comedy in our world, we have to find better topics when using cell phones. Sadly, these conversations begin with a description of the caller’s location, since it’s so novel to use a phone from somewhere other than home, and then naming some poor excuse of a reason for calling.

A typical conversation usually goes something like this: “Hey Jane, I’m on an airplane right now surrounded by people so I thought this would be the perfect time to call you and speak up very loudly. Our plane won’t come down for 3 hours so I can talk about anything I want, such as our plans to meet for lunch two weeks from now, while everyone around me plugs their ears and casts mean looks in my general direction for no particular reason that I can discern since everyone uses cell phones these days and the captain himself said that it’s now safe to talk on cell phones, and I just love to use this wonderful new technology since I grew up with one rotary phone per house on the block and we sometimes had to walk a mile in the snow for days on end, swapping our last piece of cheese just to dial a single number on the phone unless you were willing to give up a week’s worth of pay in order to call a distant relative who always forgot your name because they didn’t have caller I.D. or cell phones back then.”

Now imagine the same person on a plane, but this time you sit behind him with a remote control that works on people tucked away in your carry on luggage. You hear the bleeping of the cell phone to the tune of some has-been top forty pop song and scramble for your remote. Your neighbor gladly takes your book because he knows the importance of your task for the common good of humanity.

You hear the person flip his cell phone open and imagine him surveying the number displayed on the screen. You paw through your carry on bag with books, magazines, an extra pair of underwear, and even toss your tooth brush on the floor just to grasp the remote in time to punch the mute button and cut off the deadly dialogue that is sure to begin.

Peeking through the seats, you observe hands flapping and a jaw moving up and down, opening and closing. Palms are up-stretched and sweat beads on a worried brow. The phone lies helplessly open in the passenger’s lap. The muted passenger looks to the woman to the left, but she is unconcerned and unsympathetic, refusing to be roused from her magazine. The passenger bows in resignation and punches the end button. A series of taps indicates this person is text messaging the would-be caller to explain this strange scenario.

Beaming with pride you hoist the remote control above your seat to the delight of the smiling, grateful masses on the plane who gaze on in awe and rally to your standard for you have stopped a cell phone conversation in a public place.

Our new home had a nice location, but everything else was either cheap plywood, smelled of smoke, or broken. I exaggerate, but point made nonetheless. While most of the appliances were either satisfactory or in good shape, the sellers passed along a little cash to purchase a new dishwasher. During our first weekend in the home we left our mounds of boxes to seek out the beloved appliance of dish washing husbands.

Carting off a mid-range dishwasher from the store, we hauled it into the house and let it become acquainted with the new environment—much like a goldfish adjusting to new water. After a week of staring at the hefty box and consulting an adequate number of plumbing professionals and handymen, I decided that the dishwasher was ready for a change of location.

Things never went well, according to plan, or smoothly. Pick your cliché for ease and simplicity, and I guarantee it did not apply. I needed help disconnecting the old dishwasher, had to buy an adequate wrench, didn’t have the right kind of hose, lacked a long enough electrical cord, and then broke all kinds of pipes under the sink.

I don’t really know how much stuff broke, only that open water lines filled up our buckets pretty fast. The antiquated faucet sent spindling metal roots below the sink, weaving and curling around so that I was never quite sure where each line began or ended.

For a solid week I returned home from the office, put on my work clothes, and laid under the sink to bang, clang, and fight off profanity. Each line seemed to have a leak, and every nut on a pipe was in an impossible location for my petite wrench. Even after I found the leak, it became clear that the pipe could not be replaced: we needed a new faucet. That meant every single connection had to be undone.

I can’t remember being so angry at an inanimate object before. I wanted to punch something or pull out an aluminum bat and beat up an old piece of machinery. Using my bare hands to tear the faucet out in one growling roar seemed plausible. I was a lost cause. Even with half of the sinks lines removed, a stubborn bunch held out at the top, daring me to wedge my wrench into their stronghold. Persisting with my personal war, I substituted deep “Ugh’s” and pointed “Agh’s” for the words scrolling through my mind.

And then my wife asked, “Can I have a try at it?” I wasn’t going to stand in her way. Prowling around the kitchen like a wild beast, I listened to her efficient cranks with the wrench. Metal clanked down inside the cabinet and within twenty minutes she popped out with a smile. “I’m all done. That was kind of fun.”

With her book and cup of tea she settled on the couch, the picture of domestic tranquility. I stared at my handily slain adversary in disbelief. For whatever reason I told myself this was a private battle, a bout of perseverance I had to win at any cost, even if I lost myself in anger, stewing in the worst thoughts I could dredge from my spirit. We all need help. If only we asked for it.

Living Word Bible Chapel has found a way to use every translation of the Bible at one time during Sunday morning services, a key way of connecting with the broad range of generations in attendance. “We call it the scripture translation service,” shared Pastor Ronny Steggles. “The Bible is relevant to people where they are, and I believe serving up a wide variety of Bible translations is the best way to do this. “

The translation team lines a box next to the sound booth in the back of the sanctuary, each with a different version of the Bible at his/her finger tips. As people enter the sanctuary, they pick up head phones, plug them into a jack in the pew, and then turn a dial to the translation of choice.

“I totally love the translator who reads The Message during the service,” commented Pastor Steggles teenage daughter, Jeanie. “I like using slang and when I IM my friends we use hyphens all of the time, like if a boy is super-hot or a girl is a stupid-plain-faced-dork. So the Message, with its hip phrases and over-reliance-on-hypens, really relates to me.”

Ann Pewter prefers the New Living Translation. “I sometimes have a hard time following the sermon, but then I hear the New Living Translation version of the scripture passage we’re studying and it’s as if I’m hearing the voice of God inside my head. Of course it’s really just the translator speaking into my head phones.”

Not everyone in the church enjoys the benefits of the translation service. Long time NIV supporter Mildred Stickler refuses to sample another translation through the headphones. “It’s one thing to toss aside the King James Version, I mean, that really isn’t English anyway. But once people start playing with all these versions of the Bible, there’s no telling what people are going to make the Bible say. Now that we have the NIV there is no reason to play Biblical potpourri.”

Though Living Word Bible Chapel provides a wide variety of translations—NIV, KJV, NKJV, NASB, NAS, RSV, NRSV, and ESV—there are a few that have not made the cut. “I read on a web site somewhere that the TNIV is trying to feminize God,” said Pastor Steggles. “That is simply unbiblical. We can’t have that, and I refuse to endorse any translation that attempts a gender change of God.”

As it stands, the program has been a tremendous success with 60% of attendees citing the scripture translation program as their number one reason for attending on Sunday morning. “It’s so nice to hear the Bible in words you understand,” shared Jeanie Steggles. “I think this makes our church really nice to visit. We accommodate everyone, except for those bad feminists who wrote the TNIV.”

A doughy breakfast bar with a grape filling, the bar is modeled on the last supper Jesus shared with his disciples. This meal, involving the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine, is enacted by some Christians once a week and by others once a month with wafers or bread and sometimes with wine or grape juice.

“This breakfast bar is the perfect snack for busy Christians on the go who need more time in the morning for Bible study and prayer,” commented Seth Fillings, the CEO of Sunshine Foods. “They can just grab a bar, break it, and have a ‘holy wholesome snack,’ as we like to say.”

A market analysis of local pastors has yielded positive results thus far. John Thompson, pastor of Western Mountain View Christian Center in Colorado Springs, received a case of the Incarnation bars. “My kids loved them, but got a little carried away with the breaking of the bread bit. They made a real mess of my car on their way to school.”

Fillings’ vision for the Incarnation bar goes beyond breakfast. “There are thousands of churches with volunteers spending countless hours on communion preparation. They have to purchase bread, break it, pour the wine or juice, and then clean everything afterwards. Now consider this: Incarnation bars are passed out in a few minutes and the wrappers are just tossed in the trash. Think of all the good these people can do when they are freed from preparing and cleaning up communion.”

The vision for the Incarnation bars is immense at this point. “I’d love to also partner this bar with a bestselling Christian inspirational book,” shared Fillings. Though he has approached several popular church leaders about endorsing the bars, no deals have been inked so far.

Incarnation bars will be available in grocery stores and in elect churches this summer.

I sat in the hygienist chair gripped in anticipation. I nibbled my nails, tapped my foot, and constantly yanked and tugged at my scrubs to make them look neat and professional. Secretly I prayed that Hank just ate a Snickers bar or something gewy and gross. Or better yet, maybe he doesn’t even know what floss is. Now that will give me plenty of time to work on that mouth of his.

Cecily leaned out of her squat reception area and glared. It’s time. Is Hank the one? I wonder how he feels about dogs or even having kids? Does he support gun control? Vote Republican? Drink with the boys on Friday night? Watch Nascar on Sundays?

With the clipboard as my shield I enter the waiting room. Hank is comfortably reading a Time magazine. Now that’s a good sign. He’s literate and informed on current events. Staring, I let out a small sigh pass to the mortification of Cecily who begins to make faint gagging noises.

“Hi Hank!” I say with the broadest smile I can muster that shows off my magnificent white teeth. “I’m Sally and I’ll be cleaning your teeth before Dr. Swinkbottom gives them the once over.”

Returning a kind smile, Hank rose and walked toward me. I extended my hand and he gave a firm handshake that left me entire body paralyzed. My grip hardened, a hint of panic showed in Hank’s eye, and then Cecily slammed a book on the ground to rouse my fluttering mind. I haven’t felt like this in ages. I mean, it must be, well, over a week at least.

Hank took a seat in the chair and I swiftly laid him back, elevated the seat, and arranged the light on his teeth. To my immediate chagrin he had immaculate teeth that I would be able to clean in five minutes. Floss? Yes. Candy bar? No. How am I supposed to begin a relationship if he has perfect teeth?

While laying my tools out, I noticed that Hank kept his left hand conspicuously hidden in his left pocket. “So, he wants to play hard to get?” I said to myself. I decided then and there that for the sake of love and our happy future together I must draw this out. I needed at least 30 minutes to win Hank’s heart and that meant the teeth cleaning of his life. Of course if that fails I wrote my phone number on the back of his complementary toothbrush.

We fortunately had two items that saved us from a freezing night out in the woods: a cell phone and a digital camera.

It was without a doubt the dumbest thing we’ve ever done as a married couple. Hiking into the woods near sunset without flashlights is not a good idea. Nevertheless, our error was in grossly miscalculating the time of sunset.

Julie and I arrived at Bald Mountain, overlooking Bennington in southern Vermont, around 5:30 pm. We reasoned if we could reach the summit by 6:30 pm, we would make it back down by 7:15 pm. Thinking that the sun set around 7:00 pm, we never thought we’d have a problem.

Unfortunately, the sun sets around 6:20 pm during this time of year.

With 6:30 pm as our goal, we set off at a blistering pace. We scrambled through muddy muck and bounded up rocks. The trail was pretty and very well marked with blue blazes. Though a few sections with multiple turns slowed our progress, we found the gradual trail covered in brown, yellow, and red leaves a relatively easy hike.

At 6:15 pm we reached bear hollow and noticed that one last hill loomed over us. Though the sky was rather dim, we thought we would give it one last push before turning around.

After zig-zagging up switch-backs, we caught the first glimpse of the magnificent view from Bald Mountain. The setting sun cast a magnificent golden shine on the remnants of the fall colors. It was 6:25 pm, we knew we were in good shape.

A few minutes later we reached the rocky summit with meandering little paths, small pine trees, and small patches of red blueberry bushes (at least we thought they were blueberry bushes).

The view was magnificent. Mountains rolled off in every direction. Mt. Greylock loomed off to the south, while the mountains in New York state distinguished themselves with large humps and hills in the west. We snapped a few pictures, laughed at our smearing of the Green Mountain Club’s estimate of 2 hours for a summit hike, and then shot down the trail.

In a matter of minutes we realized the sun was very well set and that we were on the east side of the mountain, already in a deep dark shadow from the vanishing sun. We knew that things were not looking good.

I kept the pace very swift and we bounded over rocks and through piles of leaves. While rushing along I noticed that the abundance of leaves would make finding the trail very difficult in a matter of minutes.

Fortunately the trail was exceptionally maintained with extensive blue blazes all along and generous double blazes to alert us of turns. Yet 15-20 minutes into the descent the blazes were no longer visible. Though the trail was fairly straight and obvious, we knew that it would soon level out, begin winding around, and generally make life very difficult for us.

Panic crawled up through my body and began to set off alarms and pure fear at the encroaching darkness, but then I remembered the cell phone. We never wear watches, so we always bring a cell phone along to help us keep track of time. I thanked God just then for the cell phone.

Though we were out of range for service, we could use the cell phone’s LCD display light to find the blazes and keep on the trail.

Stumbling along, I kept an eye out for blue blazes and shone the phone closely to each suitable tree in search of the kindly blue paint.

Things went surprisingly well until we hit a rather clear area with a few trees. In a matter of seconds we were off the trail. I had seen a double blaze, stepped forward, and soon lost my bearings completely. I also began to lose my mind.

Thinking that I could make things work, I ran around with the phone wildly shining it on everything I could find and immediately found nothing. This only heightened my alarm. The thought of running around the woods all night to keep warm did not appeal to me.

Full scale panic was about to set in when Julie, who had quietly followed my stumbling lead thus far, intervened. “Stop running around, that’s not helping,” she told me. “Let’s just get back to the last blaze on the path and then take it from there.

I walked back with her and within a few tense minutes she found the double blaze. After a few failed attempts to find the next blaze together, we regrouped back at the double blaze. “OK, I’ll stay here while you go ahead and look for the blaze,” Julie said.

Feeling my ineptness and panic, I felt unable to search out the next blaze. I was still reeling from the panic attack of five minutes ago. “Can you try?” I asked. “I haven’t had too much success with this.”

“Sure, no problem,” she replied.

I should say something now about my wife Julie. She is very experienced in the woods. Her family has been hiking for as long as she can remember. No doubt she was frightened, but she also knew exactly what to do when we lost the trail. While I ran around and got disoriented, she stayed put, turned about face, and quickly found the blazes.

While I waited by the double blaze, Julie advanced down the trail with the bouncing light of the cell phone and examined the trees. After a few tense minutes, she called out, “Got one!”

I was relieved, full of hope, and immensely grateful to God. Each blaze was another step out of this mess and Julie had just cracked the hardest part of the trail.

I clumsily stumbled over rocks and into stream beds until I reached Julie with the glowing cell phone. We agreed that I would wait by each blaze until she found the next one.

To her credit, Julie made the most of the situation and made a sort of game out of finding each new blaze. Her resourcefulness amazed me.

I watched Julie and the bouncing light of the cell phone bound down the trail and shine on a number of trees until she declared, “Got One!” I then followed her awkwardly through the darkness.

While waiting at one of the blazes, I realized that I had a light of my own. Slung around my shoulder was our digital camera. Turning the camera on and flipping the LCD screen to a bright picture, I found that the camera made an even better light than the cell phone.

We now made quick work of the trail, each flashing our own lights on the path and onto trees.

During one of our meet-ups at a newly found blaze, Julie remarked, “Isn’t this a great parable?”

Completely missing her point, I mundanely replied, “You mean, don’t go hiking close to dark without a flashlight or something like always know when the sun’s going to set?”

“No,” she stated, “It’s a parable of how God works. He only gives you enough light for the next blaze.”

I agreed, it was a great parable. I also had to place a tremendous amount of faith in whoever designed the trail, praying that it was relatively straight and obvious, and whoever put up the blazes. That was all feeding into the lesson of life and how often we simply have to live by faith. It was a sobering moment that hinted at a grand purpose behind our stupidity.

Though our pace was slow, we arrived back at our car around 7:45 pm or 8:00 pm. We honestly didn’t notice.

Our shoes and pants were wet and muddy, but in the grand scale of things, they didn’t register. We were far more concerned with turning on the car’s lights, cranking up the heat, and digging into a waiting bag of Sun Chips on our journey home.

Writing Exercise: Write about a bracelet that is associated with a cause other than a disease. Allow yourself 10 minutes. If you’re brave, post it as a comment!

My exercise:

English teachers of all grade levels have taken to the halls of their repective schools with blue wrist bands. I an effort to raise grammar awareness, they chose blue to remind students of the markings that typically cover their essays and reports after grading.

“It was hard to settle on a color that matched everyone’s grading style. Some like red, others like purple, but blue seemed to be the choice of the majority,” commented Mrs. Semma, one of the campaigns organizers. “It’s a subtle reminder to the kids that grammar has a beauty all its own and should be valued,” she added.

Of particular concern to teachers is the effect that technology has had on the style and usage of their students. “With kids using Instant Messenger, e-mail, and grammar check,” remarked organizer Mr. Colin, “Kids can flagrantly ignore all of the rules of grammer. Does ‘LOL’ or ‘L8tr’ really pass as English?”

Bands can be purchased online at www.save-grammer.com. Don’t forget the dash in the name, all grammar is important.

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