Lucky for me, I love all things new. New people. New places. New spaces. But change on this large of a scale is challenging.
I miss the old-old-old kids room. By the front door. With the slide. But I could see how a kids room near an exit could be a misfit. I was especially glad when they moved it a third time–away from the added noise of the smoothie blenders. I come upon the kids room in the new Co-op yet, but I keep hearing about it. That’s how gigantic the new store is.
We all like to complain, don’t we? Especially when we’re anxious.
A bunch of us are complaining about the cheese department, but we’re also thrilled about the sliced cheese in the deli and the promise of pizza. Heck, I’m overjoyed that I don’t have to wait for someone to pour my chai anymore.
Some people say that they might as well shop at Price Chopper or Hannafords, that there’s no difference, especially since they have “natural food” selections too.
For me the greatest difference has always been the cereal aisle. I hardly ever have to fight with my kids in the Co-op. Generally there’s not going to be candy masquerading as breakfast.
“We own the Co-op, right Mom?” they ask.
“Yep,” I say.
Now that’s a difference that makes ALL the difference.
petty |ˈpetē| adjective 1 of little importance; trivial • characterized by an undue concern for trivial matters, especially in a small-minded or spiteful way
I have to admit that I feel satisfied that Richard isn’t a part of the new Co-op.
I like strolling the new wine department–in all its expansion–knowing he doesn’t get to be there.
These are petty thoughts, of course, given the weight of what happened; but the feeling is my own personal vengeance for what was stolen.
Against my better judgement, I signed up to work the cheese “stroll” following the annual Heifer Parade, thereby prolonging the mayhem of Brattleboro–instead of making the mad dash out of town right after Bernie waves–which is when the crowd cheers and moves en masse toward the fair upon the “Retreat” Grounds–which I might have to check into after today.
When I descend the steep hill from the Town Green to the fields below, and find my way to the Co-op’s tent, I am surprised to discover that I won’t be standing right behind the platters of cheese like I’ve seen workers in aprons do in years past. Instead, the role that my husband and I are assigned to is: behind the lines to cut the cheese. (I never noticed those people before.)
Champlain Valley Creamery’s beautiful soft ripened triple crème cheese with a bloomy white rind
I’ve never cut the cheese either, and as I attempt to learn the varieties in front of me, I wonder why the coordinator doesn’t just rely on member workers from her own department. It would make her job simpler; but she says that she likes to spread the wealth. And spread, we do; because Casey and I are assigned to the spreading table.
Olive and herb goat cheese.
Camembrie.
Triple Cream.
Bijou.
Ash.
After an hour, I find myself in a rhythm of cutting and spreading, discreetly placing the broken rice things dipped in cheese aside for my own covert snacking; and carefully wiping the leftover cheese crumbles from the cutting board onto my salad for the lunch I will eat when this two hour shift is done.
I’ve never realized how sensual a cheese can be; and despite the heat and the crowds, I am happy. I don’t care how much cheese people eat, and whether they appreciate it, or whether they consider visiting the Co-op to buy it, because I am one with the cheese, and its virtue transcends consumerism.
I am so happy (and a bit delirious) that when it is finally time for me and cheese to part, that I decide to stick around at the fair, and listen to music, and dance, and eat my salad with the assorted cheese crumbles.
Somehow cutting the cheese made the difference between fleeing from–and floating through–this afternoon in Brattleboro.
I am still on the grounds when the day closes, licking brie from my fingers.
It’s not that cheese is new to me. I’ve visited France. And I’ve always appreciated the cheese department of the Brattleboro Co-op–back to the days when Henry cut the cheese.
But now I have a greater intimacy with this craft. It’s become personal–and local–made right here in the Green Mountain State– by small farms with names I know~
Jasper Hill Creamery.
Champlain Valley Creamery.
Vermont Butter & Cheese Creamery.
Blythedale Farm…
Now when I’m shopping, I pause even longer at the cheese counter… My husband and I pick up one familiar soft friend after another, and gently caress it like a lover. We consider signing up for the same shift next year, and in the meantime, we decide to make a date with a baguette, a bottle of wine, and some artisanal cheeses from around our state.
Kelly Salasin, June 2011
ps. Casey & I did sign up to work the cheese stroll in 2012–and cheerfully reported to duty–even in the pouring rain.
Minutes before the old Co-op closes its doors for the last time. June 14, 2012. 6:40 pm.
I walked through the Co-op tonight for the last time. They’ve started moving without me. We never picked up our mail at the post office this month so we only just discovered that they were closing today at 7:00 pm. For good.
Apparently, they had already moved quite a bit. Every dry good aisle was empty, and it was only the refrigerator and freezer cases that remained stocked. There was a make shift counter in the deli and there we ordered a sandwich in a wrap because there was no more bread. There were no chips either. Except for bags and bags of mesquite bbq ones which obviously need to be discontinued.
We ate our dinner on one of the benches facing the new store in the soft evening sun of early summer. We watched John Hatton, President of the Board, walk back and forth from the old store to the new store and then across the bridge toward Dotties.
Ah, Dotties. That’s the same.
But then again, it isn’t. It hasn’t been around that long. It’s a spring chicken as far as the Co-op goes.
After finishing our wraps, we went to a fabulous movie about aging and India and love and growth. My heart was overflowing by the time it was over, and the new bathroom at Latchis took me by surprise, even though it’s been renovated for quite awhile now.
I miss the old narrow entrance and tight corners of the wooden stalls and tiny porcelain sink. It was terribly impractical and very charming.
I’m getting old. Not quite as old as the brilliant characters in the film, but I’ve been in Vermont long enough to see things really change. Like the Co-op. It’s grown three times since I first started shopping there–almost 20 years ago.
Twenty years! How did that happen?
When I arrived in the Green Mountains from the Jersey Shore, I wasn’t even 30. Since then I’ve watched young children become mothers, and middle-aged friends become elders. I’ve lost some too.
It’s not that I’m nostalgic. I love change. I can’t wait to enjoy the new store. Good riddance to those grimy bathrooms and that over-seated cafe.
And yet, in the passing of the Co-op, and that of old friends, I can feel my own self slipping away. I’m part of all that is passing–because it was once a part of me.
Okay, I was wrong. Frisbee players aren’t all pot-smoking loafers. In fact, when the family and I took the long drive up to the Northeast Kingdom to check out the Vermont State Championships, we were delighted by the positive energy on the field.
Ultimate Tournament Staff delivering water
Actually, there were surprisingly several fields–upon which several teams played at once–each with its own entourage of tents and coolers and water jugs and nomadic fans–who packed up the belongings and moved at the end of each game , like a caravan through the desert, though this was the lush, green hills of the northernmost part of the state, approaching the Canadien border.
Who knew there were so many highschool Ultimate Frisbee teams in Vermont–28 represented today! What struck me most about this spectacularly coordinated event was the air of festivity–as evidenced in the joviality of the players–with cheers and antics and most notably–song. Teams actually sang to one another. It was a bit like Monty Python meets Morris Ale meets the pasture–rolling hills and fence posts and the like.
That said, the team playing against our own Brattleboro Honey Badgers was–intense–with several highschool-aged coaches & the like about to burst an artery–while screaming at their own players. Not only did they lose, by quite a bit, but they got a zero from our team for “Spirit”–on a scale of 1 to 5.
Honey Badger Spirit
Yes, there was actually a score for “Spirit,” which provided yet another facet to appreciate about this sport that I had once pooh-poohed. In fact, each team was to assign a “Spirit Captain” who was provided a special cap to identify him to others, as he was to receive “amnesty from coach-wrath when correcting a coach or team’s actions.”
The Captain’s role was to ensure that his own team was “playing fair, keeping language in check, not spiking the disc, and most importantly–not making calls from the sidelines.”
Alas, the Badger’s didn’t have an official coach, just one of their own players, and neither were they sanctioned or supported by their own highschool, though not for lack of trying. The kids did it all on their own under leadership of a couple determined seniors–scheduled practices, arranged fields, ordered uniforms, provided their own transportation to games and tournaments–like this one–a 4 and a half-hour round trip.
While at first the Honey Badgers were frustrated not to receive the same benefits that the football or the baseball or even the tennis players might ultimately, I think, they enjoyed their freedom. There were no eligibility requirements (like grades or behavior), or mandatory practices, and they had fun with their uniforms–choosing odd numbers (like 666) and odder names (like Midnight, Sauerkraut, Cowgirl and Spaghett.)
While the intensity of opposing team blew away any thoughts I had of frisbee as entirely laid-back, there was a game going on behind us with another team from our neck of the woods–a private school known for independent thinking (and very limited competitiveness)–who could be overheard gently shouting, suggesting really, “Be aggressive,” as if they weren’t sure it was at all necessary (or possible.)
Our own team had a similar friendly edge, for when their game point was contested, they eagerly acquiesced–just to be able to play a bit longer. This afternoon in Lyndon, Vermont was the last time on the field for the seniors on the team, and all of the Honey Badgers were eager to hold on to what they created together, with little acknowledgement to the day of wins.
Kelly Salasin, May 2012
Lyndon Center, Vermont
2012 USA Ultimate Vermont High School Ultimate Championships
“It feels just like a Whole Foods now,” some complain.
This Vermont Life 