Civil Union Bells? Wedding Bells? Which Will It be In VT?

Last night was the VT [LGBTQ] Marriage Comission’s final hearing. Testifiers addressed the semantic challenges of civil unions early and often. VT statute makes it clear: One “becomes party to a civil union” with one’s same sex partner instead of getting married, and “dissolves” a civil union instead of getting divorced. This creates challenges both serious and odd. As a particularly witty participant noted: “My [divorced] Friends get to be divorcees, even gay divorcees. [when my civil union was dissolved] I was… disillusioned?” She also pondered what to say when one has just gotten hitched, civil union style: “I’ve been… unionized? Great. Teamsters or AFL-CIO?”

Attending the hearing last night affected me more than I expected it would. Several people exposed civil unions for what they were: a good step in 2000. And what they are: a second rate substitute for marriage that makes sense only from a standpoint of fear or bigotry. In addition to showing clearly that civil unions aren’t equal to marriage, the testimony affirmed LGBTQ people, and partnerships. One woman opened by noting the state couldn’t make her 11 year relationship any stronger, she and her partner were the only ones who could do that. But, she asserted, the state should give them legal rights because their relationship was equal to that of their heterosexual neighbors, and to remove barriers to their taking care of each other. Of course she said it all better than I just did. Gray haired parents got up to talk about their gay children, their same-sex partners, their gay friends. The litany of stories made its mark. I left with a warm and fuzzy feeling.

But the warm and fuzzies were tempered with mild discomfort**. Even though most of the testimony was pro same-sex marriage, it is inherently hard to sit through debate about whether your relationships are worthy of legal status heterosexual couples can take for granted. As more than one married straight person said, it is embarrassing that we even have to have this conversation.

* As the legislature saw it when they passed the law, the only other difference between civil unions & marriage is that one has to be 18 to enter into a civil union, but minors can get married. In practice, it turns out there are other differences.

**Another source discomfort: That I get so fired up about marriage at the expense of devoting energy to more pressing social justice issues. It's realted to my annoyance that the pro marriage equality crowd so readily appropriated the language of civil rights movement. This is a whole 'nother topic , however, so i'll go there another day.

Latte Math

Seattle WA: pop 572,600. Number of Starbucks: 27

Chittenden County, VT: pop 150,069 Number of Starbucks: 4.

They may have more Starbucks stores per-capita, but I am quite sure that this corner of VT has more Starbucks per starbuck- drinking-capita. Take that Seattle!

Stranger Than Fiction

Thanks to the VT department of transportation for reminding us to be wary of houses of worship.

The Return of Photogenic Veggies!

Actually, a more apt title would be "the return me having time to photograph vegetables."

Recently Acquired Knowledge

For starters, I didn’t know, that in addition to being an initialism for Canadian Standards Association, CSA stands for community supported agriculture. I also was unaware of the twisty green stalks pictured above—garlic scapes. Then I joined a CSA. How wonderful it is to discover a whole new vegetable. Well not really a whole new vegetable, just the stalk of a garlic flower plus the un-opened bud. Aren’t they pretty?

How Can Your Resist Strawberries Like These

Cool.

There is Symbolism in here Somewhere

Yesterday I awakened so enthusiastically that looking back on the event, even I, a morning person, feel a bit grossed out. It was green-up day--- a statewide campaign to pick up after ourselves, and I was ready to go.

The idea makes a lot of sense. All winter long there is enough snow to, for the most part, hide our littery ways, and certainly enough to thwart all but the most devoted cleaner-up-ers. By may (thankfully) there isn’t snow left to hide the 5 or so months of trash, so some spring cleaning is in order. Compared to la cite d’ou je viens, hey compared to most places in the US, there isn’t much trash. That just makes the idea even cooler. Besides, it is an excuse to wander aimlessly, and possibly befriend some neighbors while chipping away at one’s liberal-white person guilt complex. To resist such an opportunity takes more discipline than I have, or so I thought.

I bounced over to the town clerk’s office for an area assignment, and a bright green trash bag. But wait, the parking lot was empty, the building locked. There was no clerk to be found. Not to be deterred, I scurried home “someone will be there by 9 am,” I thought, as I plunged into a personal green-up day, which consisted of vacuuming the living room. 9 rolled around and things looked more promising. There was a cluster of cleaners collecting cans in the cemetery, and girls gathering garbage on the green, but no town clerk. Foiled again. As a token sign of participation I picked up a scrap of neon orange flagging on the way home.

My intent was to get a regular old garbage bag and join the fun. Then it occurred to me: my 8 gallon white kitchen bag would stick out amongst the green-up bags as much as I would in group of neighbors who’d known each other for years. Shyness, an uncharacteristic emotion, overcame me. So instead of greening-up I played the stereotypical American and hopped in the car to go buy stuff. The irony made me smile.

Moo

For the second time in as many days I drove home at a snails pace. It was a refreshing change from last weeks commute though, which was slowed by frozen precipitation. This time I was stuck behind a manure spreader. That’s a sign of mud-season spring if there ever was one.

Last year come April I was surprised when cows appeared in a field down the road. Where had they been all winter? At first I thought “come December cows must make like retirees and hop a train to Florida where they spend the winter doing . . . um . . . er . . . whatever one does in Florida. But wait, cows used to VT cloud cover would roast in sunny FL. They’d come back indistinguishable from McDonald’s burgers. Bovine migration is clearly not the answer.”

The mystery of my quadruped neighbors’ winter digs sat in the back of my mind until one day at work. “Where do cows go in the winter?” I asked my unsuspecting boss as we sped past farms en route to a site. The fit of laughter that followed made driving difficult. She’s the patient sort though, so once we were back on the road and she could talk without snorting coffee out her nose she calmly answered my question.

Oops. I try not to let my insanity show the first month on the job. Anything to hang onto one’s dignity. At least my question is resolved: cows spend the winter like us, they put on down vests, huddle in front of the heater, and slurp hot tea.

April, you're such a tease

My discipline wanes with the melting snow. In March cross-country skiing is a treat. In April bundling up is too much of a hassle.

The first weekend of April was painfully beautiful. All of a sudden the sky, buildings, boxcars on the passing train, everything that looks so flat in the winter, when we are the filling in a gray sandwich of sky and clouds, dazzled. Even the muddy ground appeared vibrant. All this color upstaged the thrill of going outside without a down vest and mittens. My thawing toes, however, were notable. On days like this, a flatlander can’t help but expect a normal spring.

For me, normal lies (not so far) south of the Mason Dixon line. Down there puffy fruit trees bloom overnight. They capture one’s attention until the rest of the landscape turns green. While the flora struts its stuff, the temperature winds lazily upward. July will bring swampy humidity, but May is heaven so who cares?

Today’s slush-storm is a rude reality check. Up here, far closer to Canada than any outpost of the confederacy, spring would be a euphemism for the stretch between winter and summer. Would be if anyone ever bothered to use the word. Instead they call it like it is, mud season. Maybe it’s a survival technique ---don’t want to get one’s hopes up for nothing. Maybe it’s a warning—flatlanders beware: you’re in for a rough few months. Whatever the origin, one thing is for sure: every mud season I witness makes winter seem better and better.