Seven Days Blogs: Yo, Hackie!

B-Town's Little Big Easy

Mardi Gras was crazy and crazy busy. I began my shift when the parade ended around five and, for the next 10 hours, I was flat-out. What a boon to the local economy, including we cabbies! I'm blogging this the day after, so it's all still a blur. But I do have some bead pics I managed to shoot.

I asked this one woman if I could take a photo of her beads. She said, "Sure, do you also want to see my breasts?" I didn't miss a beat. "You bet," says I, "but let's talk about that the next time I drive you without your husband."

Oh, yeah - Jernigan still got game!

Political Hackie

About five years ago, Damon Brink and a couple of partners bought out the venerable Nectar Rorris and became the new owners of Nectar's Lounge and Restaurant. The town held its collective breath.

Nectars, with its inimitable rotating orange neon sign, is the heart and soul of downtown Burlington. True, it had grown a little shabby over the last few year's of Rorris' stewardship, but I don't think anyone desired a radical change; the place was just too perfect, from the memories of early Phish to the velvet brown gravy - vats and vats over the years.

Well, Damon and his mates did great. The place has been sensitively refurbished and refreshed; the character kept intact in all the important ways. Best of all, Nectars has reestablished its place at the heart of the downtown music scene.

A couple of weeks ago, a huge political campaign sign appeared in the front window. It read, "Ron Paul 2008."

I don't support Ron Paul, although I do appreciate his convictions and forthrightness. I find his libertarian viewpoint - trim government, leave us alone - to be unsuited for the modern, global world. For better or worse, I believe, we (all the people of the world) are on this boat together, and it is only through collective action can the pressing problems of the age be effectively addressed.

But never mind that. My problem with the Ron Paul sign is not my feelings about Ron Paul. I just don't think it's appropriate for a retail store, particularly a public gathering space like Nectars. I think that the owners are forcing, in a way, their personal politics on their customers, making them feel like, by patronizing the establishment, they are endorsing the views of the owners.

Well, I emailed to Damon and he wrote back. He made some really good points, particularly about his not wanting to separate his public and private selves, and about the Ron Paul sign being a spur to further conversation and debate. Though I still disagree with him about the propriety of the sign, I came away impressed with his thoughtfulness and honesty.

What do you think about political signage in store windows? Maybe my thinking needs to evolve on this one . . .

Still a Flower Child

On V-day I discovered a winter sanctuary: the Four Seasons greenhouse at Taft's Corner. For some reason, I hadn't been there in years.

My wife and I were shopping for a Valentine's Day plant which led us into their greenhouse which they call - I love this - "the conservatory." I find that baroque.

The two large connected rooms are kept warm, perhaps mid-seventies, and slightly humid. This alone makes it a delightful place to be in Vermont in February.

The array of plant life is thrilling to the eye and nose, including a selection of orchids, for goodness sake, arranged on tiered shelves.

The far end of the room features a pool of water with a bright orange goldfish big enough for a dinner for two. (I guess I was a tad hungry during the visit.)

What a calming setting to loll away an hour or so on a winter day. We might make this a yearly ritual.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Something's always going on in this town. It's easy to get jaded, but let's not. We are fortunate to live in such a lively place. By contrast, my chum in Rutland said to me:   What's the difference between yogurt and Rutland? Yogurt's got an active culture. Rim Shot!

This past weekend was the Winter Festival. It seems this event is mostly for the kiddies, but one year I'd like to get up early enough to witness the Penguin Plunge. I'm shivering just thinking about it.

On the Church Street Marketplace, ice sculptors had created some terrific pieces. I found a bittersweet quality to these works of art of such fleeting shelf life. Apparently, each work was sponsored by, and in tribute to, the restaurant in front of which it sat. Fair enough.

I took these shots at night. As you can see, each sculpture was lit up by a colored light. The mini-Eiffel-Tower in front of Leunig's was slowly dripping in the slightly-below-freezing temperature. It was trippy, baby!

Oh, Christmas Tree

Dont'cha just love Christmas trees in public spaces? The Burlington area has some great specimens. One of the neat parts of my job is, like the Beach Boys, I get around. Here's my picks for the three top tree jobs:

1. Honorable Mention:  The St. Michael's tree located in the field in front of the observatory on Route 15. This is a gigantous, gorgeous tree decorated with splendor every year by our friends, the Purple Knights.

(My favorite line from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail": A troop of English knights confront a French guard soldier played by John Cleese sitting lookout atop a castle wall. Cleese looks down at them with a pure distillation of French disdain, and says, "You stupid English ka-nig-its - I will fart in your general direction, I will wave my private parts at your aunties.")

2. First Runner-up:  The Church Street Marketplace tree at the foot (head?) of Church Street. It too is ginormous, and this year it's features some violet lights, which you have to love. The year-round Marketplace trees are bedecked with zillions of little white lights, which seem to pay tribute to the Christmas tree itself.

3. First Place:  The Shelburne Village Green Christmas tree. This beauty is located on Route 7, at the intersection of the Mt. Philo Road. There's something about this tree, it's classic simplicity, that melts my heart. The night of this photograph it had recently snowed and, like James Taylor sang, the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting . . .

Best Pics of 2007

Cathy Resmer, Seven Days Queen-of-All-Things-Virtual, recently asked me about the lack of pictures of late on the Yo, Hackie! blog. "Tis true, I replied, I haven't yanked out the camera for quite a while. I do intend to remedy that situation over the winter months. Until then, allow me to present the Best Pics of 2007:

Back in the spring, I had the unique pleasure of interviewing Ollie the camel from Ferrisburgh. Don't you just love his eyebrows?

Here, gazing down at us from the center of the UVM green, is Ira Allen, Vermont's hero of the Revolutionary War and founder of the University. Stern looking dude, isn't he?

What a glorious summer day this was. These are the kayaks you can rent by the hour at Perkins Pier.

This is the Johnson Cold Spring in Johnson Vermont. This is flat-out the best picture I think I've ever shot! Just blind luck on my part . . .

What a mug on this guy! Merry Christmas, friends . . .

Little Pink Houses For You and Me

Fall in Vermont is not supposed to be like this, not that I'm complaining. This past weekend the temperatures bumped against 70, and on Sunday the sky was blue as Paul Newman's eyes in Cool Hand Luke.

Taking advantage of the gifts of the day, I wandered around the Old North End, taking pics of pastel-colored houses. The trend started a few years ago, and continues to spread. There's a rash of them in the Convent Square neighborhood, where I shot these.

So, when it's time to repaint the castle, be bold and get out the rainbow colors. And not just in Burlington; you folks in the mini-mansions out on Spear Street:  who says a big old house must be only dark green, gray or white?

My Day at the Beach or Hooking Up Catherine

This is my favorite time of year to wander around the waterfront. The weather is sumptuous and the summer crowds have dwindled.

I strolled onto Perkins Pier, my eyes focused on the sprawling blue ahead of me, my handy camera at the ready. I am still hoping, once in this lifetime, to spot the great lake monster.

At my feet, I heard a scurrying and looked down. A graying brown chihuahua, the size of a squirrel, paused and gave me the once over before continuing on his way. I followed him and snapped a picture. If Champ does appear today, I thought, this pooch better move away from the water's edge because he would make a tasty hors d'oeuvre for the great beast.

"Peanut, c'mere girl!" a woman called from the benches behind me. The mini-dog responded to her master's voice and headed towards her. I followed.

"Hey," I said, "I hope you don't mind that I snapped Peanut's picture. I thought I might post her on my blog."

"Sure," the woman replied. "What kind of blog do you write?"

"Oh, it's for Seven Days."

"You're not the taxi guy, are you?"

"I am indeed. Are you a fan of the column?"

"I love the column. You may not remember, but I emailed you a few months ago. I said that from your writing I could tell that you really understand women. I'm widowed, and it's been the hardest time finding a suitable man in this town."

I looked down at the grinning chihuahua at the feet of this warm and vivacious woman. If a hottie like this can't find a good mate, I thought to myself - well, that's just wrong.

I said, "I do remember your note, though I don't even understand toasters, so I sure don't know about women. But, anyway, how's about we post you on my blog and get you hooked up? Hackie readers are pretty cool people, if I say so myself. I bet we can dig up a good man for you."

"Well," she replied, "I'll give that a try! I mean, why not?"

So, here we go. Though this is a decent picture, I really should have taken a few more because it doesn't do justice to a very attractive woman. BTW, and not that this matters to the enlightened man, but she was wearing short shorts the day of this photo, and, let me tell you, she looked good in them. Boys, I mean good. She's widowed with some grown children.

So, let's hook up Catherine. If you're interested, or can recommend someone, post a comment or email me humbly stating your qualifications as a boyfriend. Broadly speaking, the winning candidate will be stout-hearted, kind-spirited to a fault, and between the ages of 40-60. I'll pass on the responses to the lady-in-waiting.

Digging Johnson

The past couple of weeks have delivered the most beautiful days of the summer. Could it be any sunnier? Could the breezes be more delightful? When the Fletcher Allen Hospital called me with an afternoon fare to Johnson, the smile on my face was Julia Roberts-like.

Praise be to Allah, the universe deposited me in the Green Mountains when I young man, barely out of my teens. My first Vermont home was located in the village of Johnson, just up 100C, a stone's throw from the Power House covered bridge.

Vermonters love their covered bridges. Like family members - and there's just over 100 still standing - each one has its own name. The Power House bridge is a classic beauty, spanning the Gihon River. In the spring, the run-off from the surrounding mountains creates some terrific white water, and the river sections north and south of the bridge lure the kayakers.

Here's a shot from the western side.  Can you see my taxi hanging out on the pull-off on the left?

Downtown Johnson features a community - I don't know what to call it - drinking hole right on Route 15. To me, it feels like a shrine, with clear mountain water streaming through every moment of every day, year after year.

On the trip out to Johnson, I was held up in traffic along three stretches of Route 15 due to road construction squeezing the passage down to a single lane. So, for the return ride to B-town, I took an alternate route, the Pleasant Valley Road out of Jeffersonville. As I came upon a farm in Cambridge, I noticed stacks of picked pumpkins, giant and glorious, like basketballs on steroids.

On the crest of a hill appeared a collection of beauties on the vine. What stopped me in my tracks was their color, so brilliantly orange, nearly fluorescent in the late afternoon sunbeams.  Maybe, I thought to myself, the gourds are more vibrant of color before they are harvested and begin their slow decline?

One final note: after shooting the pumpkin pics, I began my march down from the ridge. Thirty yards from my taxi, a farm dog exploded from the barn across the road, yelping like a jackal and tearing towards me. I paused for a second, my eyeballs bulging like the actor, Marty Feldman, before bolting towards the cab. I beat the pooch by 2 seconds, leaping into the front seat and slamming the door. Photography is dangerous, people!

Female Nuptialian Behavior

The steady march towards full rights for women has certainly reached the domain of marriage ritual. Bachelor parties - a long-time staple for the groom and his cohorts - have given rise to the bachelorette parties (originally dubbed "hen" parties), where the bride gets to, well, go nuts and embarrass herself as much as her future husband.

I'm not sure how this ritual plays out in other parts of the country, but, here in the Queen City, it has become de rigueur for the bride and her pals to eventually wind up downtown carousing the bars and clubs.

These bachelorette posses are immediately identifiable amid the hubbub of a weekend night crowd:  they are the ones whooping it up on the street, arms in the air, dancing and yelling like maniacs. The matron-of-honor is generally the organizer and instigator-in-chief, leading the pack from club to club. But the women of the evening is, of course, the bride-to-be, and she is identifiable by the tiara and veil. (The demure and oh-so-dainty accoutrement of a giant inflatable penis has also become a popular carry-along.)

A beautiful and giddy bride graciously agreed to a photo by an anonymous cabbie this past weekend. Please rise in your seats - here comes the bride:

The Epoch of Daniel

I had occasion to visit the Davis Student Center, UVM's newest building. Everyone in town is aware of this edifice, both for it's monumental size and because it sits right on Main Street, not 30 yards off Burlington's central traffic artery.

I'm here to report - 'tis glorious, indeed! The heart of the structure is a three-floored atrium infused with natural light.  I have no idea just how many different functions this building is designed to serve, but, the day I visited, it was teeming with happy students visiting the bookstore, the dining area and just hanging around in the various and welcoming, well, hanging-out areas.

As I made my way to the new offices of the school newspaper, The Vermont Cynic, I thought about this new building and the others that have arisen of late. All of this campus growth and activity, it occurred to me, is a testament to the vibrant leadership of Dan Fogel, UVM's 25th college president, who took the reins in 2002 after a dismaying series of ineffective leaders.

The position of college president, particularly at a state school such as UVM, has got to be one of the most challenging leadership posts in all of the public and private sectors. Like a corporate CEO, a college president carries the ultimate responsibility for the entire organization. But unlike a corporate boss, the college leader doesn't have all the power.

Institutionally, the structure of a public college diffuses power among various interest groups:  the tenured faculty, the students and alumni, the town and state legislative bodies, etc. Therefore, perhaps more so than other organizational leaders, a college president has to rely largely on his or her charisma, the ability to inspire the various competing factions to unite behind a common vision and row in the same direction.

This is something President Fogel has done to near universal acclaim. Since the commencement of his tenure, enrollment is up, new programs are blooming, alumni donations have swelled the college endowment - heck, even the Catamount sports teams are winning!

So, there I am, thinking about El Presidente as I mosey through the Davis Center, and - God strike me down if I'm lying - President Fogel appears at the door of the Cynic office, the college Chief Financial Officer in tow. Somewhat starstruck, I introduce myself, and he shakes my hand saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Daniel." (I love that - "I'm Daniel.") He then introduces the CFO, but, for the life of me, I can't recall his name.

We then converse a little about the campus and all the new developments and activity. Speaking with the guy, he oozes gravitas, but, at the same time, you get the feeling that there is no one he'd rather be talking with than you; with every word you experience his full attention. Man, this dude has presence!

Then together - that is, hello, just me and the President and the CFO - we walk into the newspaper office. You can tell it's newly opened - hardly even furniture or shelves, papers laying around everywhere. Fogel says to the startled staff, "Hey, that first issue this year was terrific, maybe the best ever." All around the room, the kids are lighting up. He then gets into a detailed discussion about one particular article. Leaving the office, I glance back and can just feel the boosted energy level:  I had just been witness to President Fogel in action, casually infusing another small part of UVM life with a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

I pull out my handy camera and ask for a picture. Fogel goes, "How about in front of one of the posters?" (In an adjacent space, there was a poster sale going on.) "Sure," says I. We walk over and he says, "Why not in front of the Pulp Fiction poster? We could stand there pointing make-believe guns." It was the famous shot of Samuel Jackson and Travolta, guns drawn, scowling like emissaries from hell.

The CFO says, "Do you think this is a good idea? The two of us pointing guns?" The guy is being a spoilsport, but - give him his due - he is the wingman, looking out for the boss and the image of the school.

I interject, "Well, just stand there, but don't mime the gun pointing. It'll be fine."

So, here it is - my moment with the UVM heavyweights, President Fogel on the left:

ps.

       Here's the famous statue of Ira Allen, located in the center of the UVM green. Ira and his bro, Ethan, along with their Green Mountain Boys (sounds like a bluegrass band), were heroes of the Revolutionary War. In his spare time, Ira founded UVM. Less well known about Ira is his terrific invention, the Allen wrench. (I made that last fact up, sorry.)

My, those catamounts were fearsome creatures!

The Return of the Purple Knights

Though it seems way too early, today was the day St. Michael's College dorms opened for the fall semester. Right at the campus main entrance, a bunch of upperclassmen stood out by the curb, boisterously displaying posters welcoming the students back.

Driving by the scene, I thought, How sweet is this? What a wonderful gesture by the older students. Imagine arriving as an incoming freshman, your parents in the front seat, you in the back teeming with excitement and apprehension. The first thing you see when you approach the campus is a glee club laying out the welcome mat. I made a mental note to come back and take pictures for the YoHackie blog.

When I returned 30 minutes later, there were two police cars, a wrecked car and an ambulance blocking the left lane of Route 15 right at the college entrance. The welcoming committee had rolled up their posters and were standing around slightly depressed. Though it was a pretty nasty accident, no one had been seriously injured. But the fun was clearly over.

I parked and moseyed over to ask a few of the kids, notwithstanding the damper on the whole day, if they wouldn't mind showing off the posters for a couple pictures. Graciously, they agreed, and even managed to muster of few low-key smiles, to boot. Go, Purple Knights!

Span

The Lime Kiln Bridge spans the Winooski River just before "T-ing out" where Route 15 passes St. Michael's College. The old bridge had been deteriorating for years, this despite two substantial renovations in 1940 and 1991. It was built in 1913, and, owing to its tremendous height in relation to the river, was I believe the only Winooski River bridge to survive the Great Flood of 1927. With its high, graceful arch, the old bridge was a Vermont beauty.

Construction began on the new bridge a couple years ago. In part because closing this road during construction would have been so disruptive, an entirely new structure was built just yards east of the original bridge which remained open until the new one was ready for traffic. (The old one was then dismantled.) And because of the historical significance of the original, the new bridge incorporated the beloved, though functionally unnecessary, arch support.

In 2006, Road & Bridges magazine named our bridge one of "Top 10 bridge projects in North America." Considering the thousands of bridges constructed yearly, this is an amazing honor!

So, the new Lime Kiln Bridge has been up and running for months. There remains a little landscaping and sidewalking to be done, but, basically, it's complete.  It's gorgeous - both the structure itself and the views of the river and mountains it showcases. The one drawback is the position of the arch:  It's hidden beneath the roadbed, only visible if you climb down below as I did to snap these photos. I recommend a Sunday morning visit. The bridge and vistas are breathtaking.

Rastaman Vibration

Every town has its contingent of public personalities, and Burlington is no exception. I thought to say, "public characters," but why pigeonhole these expressive people as something less than fully three-dimensional? Characters exist in books and movies; these folks are living, breathing components of our community.

Like, for instance, the Nader guy. As anyone who has spent time downtown can tell you, there is a man who daily rides around on a mountain bike festooned with Day-Glo colored pinwheels, atop of which is a large sign proclaiming, "NADER LIVES!" On the reverse of the sign, it reads, "NADER.ORG." I've thought about going up to him one day to converse, but I fear I would l lurch forward and strangle him with my bare hands, so I keep back.

Another such gentleman, also known for his bicycle, is the Birdman. A Jamaican emigre, he plies the streets of Burlington on a bicycle (see above) that can best be described as an evolving work of art. On weekend nights, he can often be found in front of the nightclubs, his bike stocked with flowers. (Other items found on the bike might also be for sale; I've not figured that one out.)

Last night I spotted the Birdman's bike parked in front of Nectars, and I got out of my cab to take a closer look. The vessel is a movable sculpture emanating such a positive vibe that passersby can't help but stop and gawk.

I noticed this sign, among others, on the stern and snapped a photo. What a beautiful message, I thought. And I love the way he fashioned the quotation marks as little exclamation points. As I examined the shot on the camera's display screen, I felt a tap on the shoulder.

"That be five dollars, mon."

I turned around to meet the Birdman at eye level. "You're kidding me, right? I mean, I just wanted a photo of the bike for my blog."

"I'm not fooling, mon. Check out the sign."

I turned back around to examine the bike, and, sure enough, there was another little green sign that read, "Please, photographs $5." Fair enough, I thought. Everybody's got to make a buck. I withdrew a fiver from my wallet and handed it to him. "Can I get a photo of you and the bike?" I asked, trying to at least get my money's worth.

"Sure, mon," he replied with a smile.

I snapped the shot and asked, "OK, maybe one more?"

"Sure, mon," he replied. "That be another five dollars."

"Really? I think I'll stick with the first one."

Mean Mr. Mustard

This past weekend was a big one for Vermont weddings, and my family participated. I spent Saturday at my nephew's wedding at a beautiful inn in Marlboro, just outside of Brattleboro. I got back in town at 11pm, and immediately hit the streets for the prime cabbing hours. Things were hopping, but - sheesh - I was beat. As the night wore on, the tiredness slipped into orneriness. Perhaps that's why, during my last fare, I spoke up in a situation where I'd normally bite my tongue.

It was nearing 4am, and I was taking one last spin through downtown. I picked up a thin, mustachioed, middle-aged man who had wandered out of Kountry Kart Deli and flagged me down. I noticed a splotch of mustard hanging from the left side of his mustache, not real attractive. "Bay Road in Shelburne," he said from the shotgun seat.

"Sure 'nuff," I replied. "Man, you closed down the town tonight."

"Lotta hot babes tonight," he said. "I couldn't bear to leave."

Isn't that just lovely, I thought to myself. (At this point, take note, I'm still behaving myself.)

As we continued up Main towards a right on South Winooski Avenue, a couple of pretty young girls were in the street near Nectar's also looking for a ride. I slowed down, and yelled out my window, "Where ya headed to?"

"Winooski," they shouted back.

"Sorry," I said, "I'm headed the other way," and kept rolling.

My customer went apoplectic. "Are you nuts?! Get back there and take them. Did you see how hot they were? For chrissake, man."

I looked over at the guy and, I swear, he was salivating. I said, "You're going to Shelburne, and they were going to Winooski. I'm not gonna take you 20 minutes out of your way."

"I don't give a fuck," he said. "Go back and get those girls."

"It ain't gonna happen, man, so forget about it."

"And why not?"

Here's where I had the choice. I could easily have responded with any number of innocuous explanations, such as, I'm sorry man. I'm just too tired, and I'm gonna knock off after I drop you. Something mild like that. Instead I told the truth.

"The fact that you are so friggin' enthusiastic about getting those girls in the car with you is the exact reason I'm not doing it."

"What the fuck are you talking about, man? Did you not see how hot they were?"

"Those girls are less than half your age, man. I mean, c'mon - didja ever hear of decency?"

"Fine," he said. "Just fine. You're losing money, man. You coulda had the additional fare to Winooski."

"I'll live with it," I said, and made myself a promise to keep my mouth shut for the remainder of the ride.

The Bristol Stomp

Jeez, I love getting into the town of Bristol, tucked among the mountains, a perfect village hamlet.Today I had a pick-up at the Bristol headquarters of Vermont Bicycle Tours, out on the Monkton Road. What a colorful Main Street - Cubber's, the Bobcat Cafe, the Village Creemmee. Like how many E's could you squeeze into one word? Deeeelightful.

The symbol of Bristol is a huge, roadside rock squatting inches off the main street on the northern outskirts of town. It's inscribed with a white-painted Biblical quote. How this boulder wasn't blasted to smithereens by the village fathers when the road was paved way back when is a happy mystery to me.

On the turn at the Lincoln Road, vehicles were parked on the side of the road for one of the state's wonderful swimming areas. Along this stretch of the New Haven River, the water flows wildly over the rocks, creating eddies and pools and white waterfalls. I felt like diving into the deep blue and frolicking with the locals.

Historical Note: For those too young to remember, the Bristol Stomp was a song that spurred a dance craze in the pre-Beatles early '60s.

Magic Kingdom

Like lepers, artists have a penchant for forming colonies.This may be a poor analogy as, historically, lepers have been forcibly herded into separate communities while artists congregate voluntarily. Still, it pertains: like lepers, artists have often been stigmatized as unfit for normal society.

One fine day a couple years ago, wandering the neighborhoods on the outskirts of Burlington's downtown, my eye was drawn to colored hanging lights which appeared at the end of a driveway between two buildings. In one of the ways (of many, unfortunately) I retain the mentality of an infant, I found myself drawn towards these lights. (If you jiggle keys in front of me, this will have a similar effect.)

The driveway leveled out in a communal parking lot serving a number of residential houses, among which were a couple of elaborately decorated - not to say, festooned - courtyards. The houses themselves were ornamented with all manner of large photographs, dolls, sculptures, one-of-a-kind, wacky outdoor furniture - Willy Wonka and Peewee's Playhouse goes to Gingerbread Land. A few large cats roamed the landscape; they seemed to have strange little cat-homes set here and there amid the splendid clutter.

As I slowly rotated around 360-degrees, a la Julie Andrews in the opening credits of A Sound of Music, I was dazzled by this fantasy mini-world cloistered mere yards from the busy streets. Though I didn't know it at the time, during later visits I discovered that a number of local artists lived in this organic development, which included a glass blowing and metal work studio.

The various creative types who lived here had collaborated in fashioning this magical communal space.

I often stop by now on my walks, if only to see what's been added, subtracted, transformed. I wish I could live here; alas, my creativity doesn't run nearly so wild and free - I doubt I could make it past the screening and selection committee . . .

Ben & Jerry's - The Early Years

The venerable Ben & Jerry's - the super-premium ice-cream company which alone is responsible for a 2.5% weight gain among American consumers in the last couple decades - opened for business in 1978 on the site of an old gas station located on the corner of College & St. Paul Street in downtown Burlington, Vermont.

In 1988, in celebration of their 10th anniversary, a plaque was embedded into the sidewalk of the famous corner. I take tourists to see this all the time; it's like our own Shroud of Turin. They also made up thousands of T-shirts imprinted, "BE 10 AGAIN."

I arrived in B-town in 1979, one year after the opening of Ben & Jerry's. They had made it through their first winter (no walk in the park for a Vermont ice cream store), and already had begun to garner the reputation that would slowly lead to success on the national stage:  Delicious ice cream with wild toppings combined with the good-time vibe of a couple of jolly ex-hippies. (Well, maybe not even "ex.")

Early on, they began showing movies against the looming brick wall on the side of their property. If I remember correctly, they would hang a huge white sheet for better projection.  Many a night I spent slurping a cone and watching a flick under the stars.

In the summer of 1980, my friend, the lawyer David Watts, invited me to be a member of the Ben & Jerry's-sponsored volleyball team in the Burlington Parks & Recreation League. We ultimately won the tournament and arrived triumphantly, trophy in hand, at the store. Ben said, "Boys - you done good. Anything you want, it's on the house!"

You've never seen a pack of grown men revert so quickly to their boyhood selves. All of us over-ordered sundaes, shakes, sodas, cones - you name it. It's extra-tasty when it's free.

For one of their many celebrations - this one might have been the Mother's Day free cone day - Ben & Jerry (the actual men, not the company) would stage an elaborate act in front of the store. First, Jerry would come out and explain that we would be treated to a rare visit from a "mystic from the east." This learned sage, according to Jerry, had studied the esoteric yogic arts, or something like that, and would now demonstrate his spiritual powers. After about five minutes of stuff like this, Jerry would announce, "Presenting - ladies, gentlemen and kids - Benhini ben Coheni!"

A sound system would blast "Rubberband Man" by the Spinners, and out would come Ben Cohen, barefoot, draped in layers of white sheets, a turban upon his head. There followed another round of "explanation" from Jerry, until finally Benhini would lay supine upon a wooden bench, undraping to expose his prodigious stomach. Jerry would then balance a cinder block upon said stomach. Another five minutes of explanation, warnings, etc. The coup de grace would be Jerry hoisting a sledgehammer into the air, coming down on the cinder block, cracking it to pieces. "Rubberband Man" blasting, the crowd going nuts, Benhini ben Coheni would slowly exit the premises, his hands up in "Namaste" to everyone.

Three more cool things about B & J:

My friend, Arnie Carbone, worked in flavor development at the company, and his office was visible to the factory tour-goers up above in the catwalk. Whenever a group passed above him, he held up a sign which read, "It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it!"

Once when I drove a family of tourists to the factory, I wandered around the back and found a "flavor graveyard." Each of the retired flavors had its own gravestone, like "White Russian."

How could you not love an ice cream company that names a flavor, ""Chubby Hubby?"

Ollie Speaks!

Whenever I have the time on return trips from Middlebury College or the Basin Harbor Club, I enjoy stopping to visit with the Ferrisburgh camel, Ollie, who lives at the Round Barn on Route 7.  Weather permitting, he can be found grazing in the grass along with his barn-mates, which consists mainly of a large flock of sheep.

As is widely known, Ollie is notoriously publicity adverse. I don’t believe he has ever consented to a formal interview, and rarely communicates at all with the many tourists and locals who stop, get out of their vehicles and begin snapping pictures. 

I respect his privacy, and when I visit with him I’m content to just hang out and watch him wander around the field and munch his cud. So, imagine my surprise and delight when, last Monday afternoon, Ollie turned his head

and . . . .

Ollie:  Hey, you're that cabbie, right?

Jernigan Pontiac:  Whoa! What cabbie do you mean?

O:  Don’t play coy with me. You know, the one who writes the stories.

JP: Yeah, that’s me all right. How do you know about my column?

O:  We like to read Seven Days. At least during the winters. So, ya want to interview me, or not?

JP:  Are you kidding? I’d be honored.

I quicky got out a pad and pen I carry with me.

O:  Fire away.

JP:  OK . . .  OK, well first off – what’s your last name? Everyone knows you as just “Ollie.”

O:  My full name is “Oliver De Tavira de Urquiza.”

JP:  Jeez, that’s quite the handle. It doesn’t sound exactly Arabic.

ODTU:  My father was from Spain

.

JP:  Uh-huh. Now there are two kinds of camels, if I got it straight - dromedaries and Bactrians. I can see you got the two humps, so what kinda camel does that make you?

ODTU:  Here we go. This is exactly why I don’t do interviews. This is insulting, man. You’re a homo sapien, right? Well, I’m a camel, and let’s leave it at that, OK?

JP:  My apologies, Ollie. Let’s change the subject. How do you get along with all these sheep? Do they give you a hard time? Do you they razz you a lot? I’ve heard sheep can be brutal on outsiders.

ODTU:  I have no problem with the sheep. They mind their business; I mind my business. There’s plenty of feed for all of us, so live and let live. You know what I’m saying?

At this point in the interview, a ram standing 20 feet away emitted a loud snort, and I excused myself from Ollie for a moment, and approached the ram.

JP: Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a couple questions?

Ram:  You can ask me anything you want.

JP:  Great! Let’s start with your name.

Ram:  Craig.

JP:  That’s it? Just “Craig?”

Craig:  Just Craig.

JP:  Perhaps you heard me interviewing Oliver De Tavira de Urquiza. He was saying that he gets along fine with you and the other sheep. Do you feel the same way?

C:  That camel is an asshole.

JP:  Excuse me?

C:  You heard me, bub. That’s all I got to say.

I walked back to complete my talk with Ollie, who appeared oblivious. Did he know how the sheep really felt about him? Perhaps it was only Craig? It was clear there was room for further investigation by a real journalist. I write for a paper, but I’m really just a storyteller, not a true journalist. Maybe, I thought, I’ll call Freyne.

JP:  Well, Ollie, is there anything else you’d like to add?

ODTU:  I’ll just like to give a shout out to all my friends in Burlington, especially the kids. I know I’m not much of a talker, but I appreciate when you stop by to say hi.

JP:  Thanks, Ollie, and take care of your bad self.

Queen City Water Gods and Goddesses

Inviting public space elates me, and Burlington has acres of it. What's better than the Church Street Marketplace on a summer night?

My favorite warm weather haunt is the Burlington bike path. I like it when it's busy with walkers, runners and all-wheeled travelers; I like it on lazy weekday afternoons when the traffic is slow to none.

Just south of Perkins Pier, beginning at the Waste Water Treatment Plant, a small peninsula juts out and the shoreline bends to the left. This stretch is home to a series of gorgeous white stone sculptures. I have not discovered a plaque indicating the name of the artist responsible for this public art; for that matter, I don't know if it's the work of a single artist or many. The pieces are not signed; nor are they titled; they are wordless!

Some of them appear to be unfinished, which, to me, only adds to their allure.

Here's Poseidon, I guess. I'm not sure what he's holding. Looks important, though.

Here's a mermaid playing a tune. On really still days, if you get close and listen quietly, you can hear the song.

Here's two practical items, a canoe and roller blades.   A day in which you use both these items is probably a real good day.

If anybody out there knows more about these public treasures, I'd love to hear about it. Especially if you are the creator!

Lakeview Terrace

Hacking - lo, these many eons - has taken me throughout Vermont, and especially through every neighborhood and street of Burlington. Now that I have this fancy-dancy digital camera, I'm beginning to shoot the homes, people and topography that I love. (Unfortunately, this technology didn't exist when I first started on the job because I could have captured some terrific action photos of the dinosaurs.)

Lakeview Terrace is a little stretch of road running behind Burlington College from Haswell to Berry Street. Though it runs parallel to the ultra-busy North Avenue, you only end up on Lakeview Terrace if you're going to Lakeview Terrace. No through traffic = quiet and relaxed.

Lakeview is among a group of neighborhood streets, like Crowley and Convent Square, which remind us Burlingtonians that we are living in a waterfront community. There's something about the windswept gardens, the fading, pastel-colored little homes, the lazy porches, the rock gardens replete with lakeshore detritus, that evoke the feeling and rhythm of the big lake undulating just over your shoulder. Lakeview most of all, as all the homes on the west side of the street have long rambling backyards which amble gently down to water's edge. Man, I bet these relatively modest homes could be bought for a song only 10, 20 years ago. It's a lucky bunch of folks who call this street their home . . .

This first shot is right on the corner of Berry Street. I call it the Gateway to Lakeview Terrace.

Here's one of those glorious porches. Oh lord, what a way to waste away a warm, spring afternoon! Pick your favorite local micro-brew, your very best sweetie and some great music just barely tinkling in the background. Talk about "rock on."

This is a typical backyard view. Can you imagine waking up, cruising into the kitchen to brew the morning java, and looking up into a picture window of this every morning?

Here's a last one - me attempting to go all Steiglitz on you. So, it's a front window, pussycat on the top of the sofa and continuing on through the rear window onto the lake. Not quite artistically realized, but, hey, I'm new at this photo-thing, so give me time!