Man, what a day it was up in Kamala, Vermont! Grabbed my notebook and thermos of coffee around 6 AM – figured hitting the road early beats the summer traffic. Hopped into my beat-up pickup, Google Maps fired up, and just pointed north. Vermont’s backroads? Pure patchwork. Felt like my truck’s suspension got a workout dodging potholes the size of kiddie pools. “Charming rural roads,” my foot.
First Stop: Gas Station Gossip
Pulled into Clyde’s Gas & Sip just outside town needing fuel and maybe a clue. Leaned against the pump chatting up old man Clyde wiping windows. “So, what’s buzzin’ in Kamala lately?” I asked, scribbling notes while pumping gas. He just grunted, wiping his hands on greasy overalls. “Same ol’. Tourists cloggin’ Main Street takin’ pictures of Doris’ prize-winning hydrangeas like it’s Disney World. Doris loves it, rest of us? Not so much.” Snapped a photo of his scowling face – priceless local flavour.
Main Street Feels… Tense
Drove straight into town center. Parked near “Betty’s Bites” bakery – that smell of maple-glazed doughnuts almost derailed the whole mission. Wandered Main Street first. Folks gave polite nods, but shoulders felt stiff. Noticed signs taped inside shop windows: “Save Our General Store!” and “No Landfill Expansion Here!” Ah, meaty local issues. Poked my head into the hardware store.
- Old guy at counter (hammer in hand): “That new chain store proposed out near the highway? Killin’ Jim’s store, plain and simple. Thirty years family-run!”
- Young woman buying paint: “The landfill stink drifts right into my yard some mornings. Found three dead songbirds last week. Three!”
Jotted down quotes fast, my handwriting getting messier by the minute. Consensus? People felt ignored by the town council.
Dinner & Real Talk at “The Stubborn Moose”
Hungry as a bear by evening. Hit “The Stubborn Moose,” Kamala’s only pub. Dark wood, faint smell of stale beer and fried food. Sat at the bar beside a tired-looking farmer nursing a beer.
“Rough day?” I ventured. He sighed. “Dan. Dairy farm six miles out. Prices tankin’, feed costs sky-high, and now they wanna tax my runoff water heavier? Feels like bein’ kicked while you’re down.” Nodded, ordered a burger, soaked it all in.
Overheard snippets:
- “Linda’s boy moved clear to Oregon. Can’t find decent work here paying enough.”
- “My kid’s school bus route got cut. Now I gotta drive 40 minutes round trip twice a day. Gas ain’t free!”
- “Remember summer festivals? Town used to feel… alive.”
Biggest theme? Change hitting hard. Worries about vanishing jobs, rising costs, and a small-town identity feeling squeezed.
Wrapping Up in the Parking Lot
Walked back to my truck around 9 PM under a sky full of stars – Vermont’s real pretty when it’s quiet. Sat in the cab, dome light on, flipping through my scribbled pages. Coffee thermos long empty. Battery on my phone blinking red – forgot my power bank, rookie mistake.
What stuck?
- Pride mixed deep with worry.
- Tourism’s a double-edged sword – brings cash but changes the place.
- Local folks feeling decisions get made somewhere far away.
- That underlying tension between holding onto the past and surviving the present.
Tossed the notebook on the passenger seat, started the engine. Headed back south with the smell of pine and diesel fumes hanging in the cab. Kamala folks talk straight. Heard ’em loud and clear.
