Snippets From a Small Vermont Town

By Michael Fawcett

About the Book
Full of nostalgia and charm, Snippets From a Small Vermont Town paints a picture of the triumphs and foibles of the citizens of a tight-knit community as they navigate the interweaving paths of their lives. From a beloved diner to the local high school varsity team, you will fall in love with this lively cast of characters, and ultimately come away with the knowledge that life isn’t always perfect. There are all sorts of twists and turns, some good, some bad. All in all, when the dust settles, we are, hopefully, happy enough to carry on.

About the Author
Michael Fawcett a retired high school art teacher, has also been on the Westminster, VT, Fire & Rescue Department as a past fireman/EMT and presently as a dispatcher. He has worked with the fire department for the last fifty years. He is also a Mason and Shriner on the Board of Governors for the Shrine Maple Sugar Bowl Football game which raises funds to help children in need at Shrine Children’s Centers. Fawcett and his wife Linda live in Westminster Village, VT.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888126141

Book preview

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Snippets from a Small Vermont Town

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Hummer Murray had the neatest club house ever made. Even if you were looking for it, you wouldn’t find it. It was hidden! Hummer’s grandfather had a bunch of delivery trucks, used to take multiple crops, corn and vegetables, from fields to storage, or storage to various markets. An everyday chore in the business of farming. Around five years ago, maybe a little further back, one of those trucks needed a new metal box body put on, to replace an old worn one to be taken off. The old box wasn’t in that bad shape. Its dimensions were maybe ten feet wide, eight feet high, and about fifteen to twenty feet long. Any way you looked at it, it was plenty big enough for the makings of a great secret club house for Hummer. Back then, Hummer’s grandfather, Pops, as he was called by Hummer, had a big backhoe. He used his backhoe to dig out a large, deep, long, rectangular hole in the steep bank beside their two-car garage and workshop. Their garage was across from and directly behind the main house. The driveway forked, either going toward the barn to the left, or swinging right toward the garage.

The hole was leveled off on the bottom and had a foot-thick cement slab put down. The older metal truck box was pushed over the near driveway end of the hole, onto the flat dried cement. It was wiggled into place with the help of a push or two from the backhoe. A backhoe is a very helpful tool for doing such things, especially in the hands of a skilled farmer. With the truck body in place, there was just over four feet of cement slab left over, beyond the box body, at the far end.

The top of the truck body, now sitting in the hole, was four feet below the Murray’s normal back yard level. The whole truck box was then covered with dirt: both sides, front and top. It was packed down well. A good layer of compost was placed over the entire sight. Grass seed was hand sprinkled over it all. Leftover piles of dirt were leveled out across the back edge of the lawn. It pushed the lawn back an extra two feet. This was also grassed over. After a few weeks, all you could see was tall grass beyond the edge of the bank going down into gully, or fresh mowed new side lawn. It looked great!

From the garage, all went back to steep slope and gully. There was no sign of anything unusual. A club house, you ask. What? You must be kidding!

Hummer, Pops, and all members in the club knew of their secret club house. They were the only ones to know. If a person walked down the steep right edge of the garage, down the cement sluice way that was there, they would come to the flat cement slab. The secret entryway. It was about twenty feet down, made up of the extra footage of poured cement. It was the only way into the club.

The entire sliding metal truck back had been welded closed, permanently sealing it down. A framed wooden door, and a small window with a window box full of flowers, were the only new additions to the back. That door was the only way in or out of the club. Going out the window would be a very difficult, tight squeeze!

From the outer edge of the entryway cement, you had to watch your step. All below was a very steep drop into a long, deep, tangle of thorns, poison ivy, snakes, and other nasty little creatures that lived down there in the gully. That gully ran from behind the garage, past the club house, and bordered the entire back edge of the Murray’s back yard. Even looking up from the bottom of that gully (as if anyone ever wanted to be down in that gully in their right mind), no one would have been able to tell there was a truck box buried anywhere in the bank.

That club house was neatly tucked away near the top of the bank, very well camouflaged from all directions. Tall, gangly, close-knit saplings, un-passable thorn brushes, leafy vines of every size and dimension, totally hid the door, window, and back of the club from sight. All was totally hidden from view from all directions.

The gully wasn’t a friendly place you wanted to be in at any time, any way. It did a good job of keeping people away. That slope was a place to dump loads of brush, grass clippings and leaves over the edge. It really wasn’t much good for anything else.

The club house had a small bathroom comprised of a toilet and a sink. The bathroom was boxed in plywood. Pops had some four-by-eight pieces stacked up in storage. Water and electricity came from the garage. The toilet was hooked up to the septic system. A cot, table and chairs added the finishing touches. A second hand T.V. set with one channel came later.

The Westland town listers would have condemned the club house in a heartbeat, if they had any idea it existed. Luckily, they didn’t know it was there. Nothing of the club house was really done up to state codes of any sort. Most members of the club were not old enough to have any idea of state codes. It all came down to the fact that Hummer didn’t have a club house. Good old Pops, being a kid at heart himself, with all the right tools and equipment, made one for Hummer! ‘Nuff said!

Not many adults knew a club house existed on or near the Murray farm. There wasn’t a youngster within three miles who would have ever divulged any of the secret mystical rites, dark mysteries, or candlelit oaths of passage, spit upon and sealed by the secret handshake. These oaths, of course, were all first taken when anyone first joined the Most High Mucky-Muck neighborhood club!

It was a pretty tight-knit group in that Westland Club. They ranged in age from almost eight to almost sixteen. They all lived within two miles of the Murray farm, many of them a lot closer. Meetings were very informal. Hummer was the Most Honorable Mucky-Muck President of the club, of course, but any members in good standing could meet at the club house whenever they wanted to.

Friday nights most parents were out and about. They all had important meetings to attend to in one place or another. It boiled down to being on time for bingo night, playing dangerous cribbage games at the fire station, a select board meeting, a Quilter Bee gathering, a Republican or Democratic party meeting, bridge players being vulnerable, or a book club presentation about the latest murder mystery that just reached the shelves.

There was always at least one big something going on when it came to Friday evenings. This left most kids that belonged to the club on their own for that evening. It became the customary evening to meet at the club house.

Being that it was now late summer harvest time, Friday club meeting agenda was set for stew making. All members met at the club house just before dark to plan the evening’s events. Two pounds of hamburger were already bought ahead of time from Lisai’s market. The rest of the stew making process took seriously planned undercover work, daring, and low-crawl silent running.

The club had a new propane grill. When in use, it was pulled out onto the cement slab from within the door. Once set in place, the propane tank, kept outside under a tarp, was hooked up. When all was together, two burners were lit up with a wooden match. A cast iron, five- gallon, kettle-pot with lid, took up both burners. Water, hamburger and beginning fixings were added to the once empty pot, which would then start to bubble away a short time later.

As soon as it was fully dark, the first two members on the list, Billy Backster and Woody Dellafino, were assigned the first task. They were to purloin four good sized carrots from Greg Dagnaski’s garden. J.T. and David Lake were assigned to Abe Jackman’s garden to get a few tomatoes and dig up four or five new potatoes. Pete Allen and Jason were assigned zukes, beans, and onions from either Tony’s or the Taylor’s garden. All items to be brought back to the club house as soon as possible.

Once all items were stuffed under t-shirts, or filled jacket pockets, they came back to the bubbling pot. Veggies would be washed, peeled, cut up, and added to the pot, given a few stirs with a wooden ladle. Any extra items purloined along the way, a small squash, a turnip, Brussels sprouts, an ear or two of corn, all were gladly accepted. They added flavor, texture and variety to the mix! As all other supplies arrived, they were prepared and added. A handful of one thing, four of those, garlic powder, curry powder, mustard, maple syrup, salt, pepper, spices—they were all tossed into the pot. It was given a stir or two with the large wooden ladle again. After a few minutes, it really smelled pretty good!

Most undercover operations on Friday nights went off quietly, without any trouble. The motley crew didn’t think most raids took enough stuff to really bother the owners of the missing vegetables from their patches. No one ever took a heck of a lot from any one huge garden, anyway. Everything went off without a hitch most of the time. No one ever complained that an ear of corn was missing from an acre corn field, or a small squash was missing.

There was one exception coming up, however! There is always somebody out there that plays strictly by the rules. Playing by the rules can really screw things up at times.

Hummer, Woody, Billy and J.T. found out about exceptions the hard way. Russ Fiddleson, that old fart, didn’t like kids messing in his garden. In fact, he didn’t like it one single flea bitten bit! Old man Fiddleson was a grumpy, stingy, old troll! None of the club members liked him very much.

Russ Fiddleson was determined to put a stop to the looting of any of his crops. It didn’t matter how much those little whippersnappers took, taking even one was wrong!

Stealing! That’s what it was—stealing —and those little bastards knew it was wrong! I know just how I’m going to stop those dern varmints, too! I’m going to stop them good, next time they came snooping around where they ain’t supposed to be. Thieves! Stealing from me! Stealing! I’ll stop them good!

It was on a usual Friday, after dark, stew raid. The motley crew was just about to disappear with two good-sized tomatoes and a few cucumber from Mr. Fiddleson’s garden. Everything was all stashed away in pockets. They were just about out of sight, when all hell broke loose. A big spotlight on the house porch went on, illuminating most of the garden.

Get the hell out of here! someone yelled.

There was a mad scramble. Young members of the club were aiming for the woods and tall grass as fast as their little legs would go!

BANG! A shot rang out!

J.T. let out a yelp. His leg was bleeding from where a load of rock salt had grazed him. Bill and Woody grabbed hold of J.T.’s arms, and the three, one hobbling, took off into the pucker brush to escape. The rest of the raiding party scattered in all directions into the darkness. A second shot was fired, but no one was hit.

A half hour later everyone in the gang had made it back to the club house. They were all chattering, swearing and muttering in low voices, sounding like an angry gaggle of geese. J.T. got nicked pretty good by the salt. The first-aid kit on the back shelf in the clubhouse was emptied out on the table. The wound to his upper left calf was cleaned up thoroughly with soap and water. Two four-by-four white sterile gauze pads, smeared with yellow-green medical goo were applied. Medical tape held the bandages in place. Only one casualty for the evening, but it was an unexpected major one. That stew still came out well. Excellent actually, considering everything that happened!

Constable Paul Whipple and Deputy dog Michelangelo, his blood hound extraordinaire, stopped by the Murray farm a day later. Paul Whipple didn’t mention any names directly, but asked to spread the word to Hummer and any other kids in the neighborhood, to give Russ Fiddleson’s place a wide stand.

Oh! And if anyone knew anything about who was raiding gardens, to let the sheriff’s office know. Paul gave Pops a wink, blew a perfect smoke ring into the air from his corn cob, then backed his cruiser out and down the road.

It became very obvious to Hummer, after he was spoken to by his grandfather later, that Officer Whipple had received a sharp complaint from that sweet old bastard Fiddleson. From what Pops told him, Fiddleson obviously wanted the looting to stop. Hummer thought the message had already been sent to the membership, loud and clear! They stopped making stew for a while.

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Chapter 2

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Everyone in the Westland Club knew to stay away from the black Dodge Charger with the Massachusetts plates. It belonged to Riccardo somebody. Riccardo was in his early twenties and a well-known drug dealer from down south. He would be seen regularly roaming the area about four days a week. He was always cruising around in his black hot wheels, seeking out new victims for his drug trade. A tall, skinny, slithering young man that looked dangerous and was!

He was six foot-three or four, wore old leather black pants with a matching jacket. He had a devil tattoo on his neck behind his left ear. He always wore that same outfit, possibly even slept in it, and looked like he needed both a shave and a bath. His temper and language were always bad. He thought he was way above everyone else, bragged about his high position in his gang. He was a member of high standing, he thought, in his gang out of Western Massachusetts.

Actually, he was just a small-time drug dealer who could get very nasty if you didn’t do things his way. Most kids tried hard to steer clear, rather than get tangled in his web. Some kids weren’t that lucky. Riccardo was a daunting big figure, looking down on his victims in buzzard fashion, when he had a young soul in his grasp.

Hummer was in his third-floor bedroom, reading a comic book. His bedroom was large, had old blue wallpaper, a large closet with clothes spilling out on the floor. It had a high chest-of-drawers, an old roll-top desk for occasional studying, a good sofa with a couple of large throw pillows, and a circular braded rug. Two dormer windows, seven feet apart, faced out toward the side yard.

Hummer was spread across his big double bed, just getting into page three of his new Adventures of Bat Woman comic. He was interrupted by loud voices outside his open window. The third floor was warm most of the time, so Hummer usually had one or the other dormer windows wide open. Other than a few bugs flying in, the open window cooled his room quite nicely. Being curious, Hummer went over to a window seat, looked out across his side yard to see what was going on.

Come on, kid. Twenty bucks. You know you want it. Give me twenty…

No! I told you no! I don’t want any of your crap stuff. Let me go…

I know you’ve got money, kid. You don’t want to buy? Fine! Just give me your frigging money then!

Hummer looked out to see Dicky Williams from next door. Riccardo had him by his neck and collar with one hand. Riccardo had something shining in his other. The two of them were just beyond a row of trees separating the two side grassed yards. They were seemingly out of sight of anyone. Hummer watched as Riccardo, closed switch blade now showing in his other hand, clicked the button which revealed what looked like a very sharp six-inch blade. Dicky’s eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. Hummer’s mouth was wide open too!

Hummer didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He bounded off his seat, flew belly-first across his bed, grabbed a handful of glass aggies from his opened marble sack, and took his professional model sling shot off the hook on the wall. He rushed to his window seat again. There, he dropped his five extra marbles on the seat cushion beside him, placed the sixth blue-green glass aggie into the leather sling-pouch. With the window opened wide, he looked out again. He drew back the rubber strongly, took aim, and fired.

Hey…Dicky Odoo… Hummer yelled out the window.

The two individuals were taken by surprise. Both turned and looked toward where the voice came from. There was a distinct thwhip, thwap, thwhip sound as the marble passed through tree leaves before making its mark.

Thwack.

It wasn’t very loud, but loud enough so Hummer heard it hit. No other sound was made. The marble hit Riccardo directly in his right eye, very fast and hard. Riccardo stood motionless for a second, then his feet buckled. He fell straight forward, down on his knees, his frame then falling forward again, arms down straight at his sides. His face bounced off the grass.

What the… Dicky looked down at Riccardo, then over to see Hummer in the upper window next door. Geez… Hum Bug… Get down here. He’s…he’s not even moving!

Hummer sprang from the window seat. He took his third-floor stairs, two stairs at a time, to the second floor. Then took the back stairs to the kitchen. He was out the back door in turbo speed, racing across the back yard. All he could see was Dicky’s back, looking down, at a distance from Hummer still.

Dicky was on his hands and knees, looking at the back of Riccardo’s head on the ground, when Hummer reached him. Dicky’s observations had been very correct! The drug dealer’s body wasn’t moving at all. Riccardo’s face was still planted in the grass, turned slightly to the left. A small pool of blood was in the grass around the right side of Riccardo’s head.

Riccardo’s right ear had blood on it. His left eye was open, blank staring toward the ground. The right eye socket and most of the right side of Riccardo’s face made up the small bloody pool. There had been a small amount of blood coming from the nose, and possibly right ear, but the bleeding had now stopped.

Hummer turned Riccardo’s head enough to check for a carotid pulse. No pulse could be found. It didn’t look like Riccardo had been breathing, or was now breathing, at all either. The right side of Riccardo’s face was all half-dried blood, grass and dirt. No right eye could be seen in the right socket, just a dark bloody hole. Dicky was shaking like a leaf, open mouthed, eyes wide and tearing up.

Oh, Jesus... Oh Jesus... I think we killed him! Oh, Jesus. What are we going to do now, Hum? He’s dead, isn’t he? I know he’s dead. He’s not breathing… Oh, man… Oh, man…

Dicky was half in shock. His mind was going a mile a minute, but nothing was moving. He couldn’t move. He was glued to the spot, shaking. He took a deep breath.

Oh God, Hummer. What do we do... What do we do?

Grab his legs, Dicky. Let’s get him the hell out of sight. We’ve got to move him, move him away so nobody sees. I’ve got to think.

Hummer was focused. His mind was also going a mile a minute, too, but his thinking stayed very focused. Hummer knew well enough that if this guy wasn’t breathing, and a wound that bad to an eye had stopped bleeding; the guy was dead. If the heart stops pumping, the bleeding stops as well. Think, Hummer, think fast!

Hummer rose to his feet, shook Dicky