At least a couple of times a year I get asked how I came to live here in the Hollows of Vermont. Like a good half of us, I chose to live here, rather than relying on chance and cosmic intent.

When I was growing up in early 60’s, this was considered the boondocks by the more sophisticated Nassau county residents, who enjoyed a closer proximity to the city proper. The outside-of-school part of my life revolved around the winding, almost pristine, Connetquot River. It had its origins in the swampy and black snake infested bogs of The Sportsman’s Club, a private park surrounded by a sturdy chain link fence. We snaked through a culvert one spring, waist deep in icy water, on our own Mission Impossible to see what really went on behind those fences. Guess I have been wondering ever since.

The Connetquot was pretty clean back then. So was the Great South Bay that it flowed into. I netted blue claw crabs against the docks and piers. Sometimes a guy from the restaurant would give me fifty cents for every soft shell crab I brought him. I would buy a cheap bamboo pole with a big red and white bobber, and hook snappers (baby blue fish) by the score.

The bay yielded hordes of flat, tasty, flounder and clams for the taking, by foot or by rake. Eels ran up the river to spawn, prompting an army of would be fish connoisseurs lining the shores. They were frustrating to catch (they put up one hell of a fight for a 10 year old), and had a nasty habit of forcing their way out of any bucket you put them into. I resorted to putting my bucket at the top of a nearby hill, which resulted in more than one chase through the grass all the way to shore. The eel usually won.

There was a large wooded area behind our house, (we just called it The Woods), that had deer, raccoon, squirrel, skunk, snakes and burrowing critters of all kinds. Flocks of colorful birds feasted on fat red berries. I made forts in the dense vines, and in the treetops.

One day, very early, I woke to the sound of bulldozers. It never went away. Civilization had arrived in Oakdale.

They widened Sunrise Highway to make room for the incoming traffic. It didn’t help much. The roar of the vehicles soon rivaled the roar of construction. The air became thick and visible. The Woods were attacked with a vengeance. Split-level homes sprang up like the product of some gigantic demented gardener intent on cloning identical fruit in neat rows. Every day I took a shovel and picked up the road kill in front of our house, now a dangerously busy boulevard. I buried them out back in an ever-widening graveyard. I was not too young to note the blatant callousness of the bulldozer operators as they peeled off and burned the ecosystem.

Seeking solace, I fled to the waters I fished and swam in. But a giant blob of undersea sludge was moving close to shore, and we were not supposed to eat the shellfish anymore. Some of the snappers I caught were mutated, with shortened fins and discoloration. I thought it was a new kind of fish, until Newsday showed a picture of one, and warned everyone not to eat them. The eels were less plentiful that year, and decreased steadily thereafter. I still remember how they made the waters roil as they massed upstream. Crabs became harder to find, and were usually smaller. It’s not to say the ecosystem died—rather that the edge of Abundance was gone.

The neighbors got together, and managed to save a 6 block by 4-block section of The Woods. It became a beacon for high school kids to get drunk and experience their first grope. A small oasis surrounded by housing developments. Only the raccoons thrived, moving into garages and porches, and staking out garbage cans everywhere.

It was the summer of 1975. I was 15 years old, and on a two-week guided AYH (American Youth Hostels) bicycle trip through New Hampshire and Vermont. A pissed off rebel without a cause, I resented being sent on this trip so my parents could take a 2-week cruise. We took a bus from New York City to somewhere in New Hampshire, and bicycled West from there.

Something happened to me while crossing the Connecticut River on the bridge out of Claremont. It was like passing through a force field. Something felt very different between the two shores, I could feel it change at the halfway point, mid-river. Could everyone else feel it? A few did, including the trip counselor, who encouraged me to stay in touch with that sense, and to follow it.

A change came over my attitude as well. I became almost sunny in comparison to the previous James Dean imitation. Suddenly, everything just felt right. A feeling of coming home after a long absence. I did go home—late— eventually arriving the evening before the start of school. They tried to keep me interested, doubling junior and senior years to get me out early. I lasted one semester. At 15 years of age, I packed a full drum set onto the Greyhound bus and headed for Vermont. Thirty years later, I am probably genetically incapable of living anywhere else.

I remember talking with an old school chum back when I was 18, and had gone back to New York for a short visit. Making conversation he says, “So you like it, living up there in Vermont....” Thoughtfully, mindful of the near frostbite I had endured when we ran out of dry wood and my socks got wet logging; I turned to him and remarked, “Vermont is my Lover. But She is a harsh mistress.”

These essays were written for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Soap, its employees, board of directors, our Web host, Web designer, the neighbors who live up the road; or any of the thousands of people who use our stuff. Originally published in edited form by Comic News. Many thanks to Seasoned Books, without which, life in the Hollow may never have become a reality.