The Change That Never Came

Empty promises left residents in this part of Vermont with what they’ve always relied on: themselves.

hen my family and I moved a dozen miles north of our previous home, which was in Cabot, we officially became residents of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. The Kingdom (no one from here bothers with “Northeast”; there’s only one Kingdom ’round these parts, and we know exactly where it is) comprises three counties—Caledonia, Essex, and Orleans— and at last count boasted a population of 64,764, which means it is home to roughly 10 percent of Vermont residents.

The town we live in is called Stannard. There are no paved roads in Stannard, which holds the distinction of being the place where Bernie Sanders settled for a brief period in the late ’60s, when he first moved to Vermont. It also holds the distinction of being one of only three towns in Caledonia County that have seen population growth over the past decade, though this may have something to do with my family moving here two years ago. Stannard’s population is barely over 200, so we were good for a 2 percent bump.

In Vermont: A Guide to the Green Mountain State, published in 1937, Stannard is described like this:

In this scattered rural settlement buried in a mountain wilderness farmers struggle to wrest a living from agricultural pursuits under adverse conditions. A white schoolhouse, and the tan and red Methodist Church and a farmstead are all that mark the center of this farming community. The region is wild and primitive in the extreme, vast forested uplands stretching away on all sides. Many of the farmhouses are unacquainted with electric lights and other conveniences, and life here is in a crude stage.

It’s tempting to say that things haven’t changed much since then, and in some regards that’s true. The tan and red church remains (I can see it from the small knoll that rises behind our barn); it’s mostly unused, though on or near every winter solstice, the community gathers for an open mic–style holiday celebration of songs and stories. There are still forested uplands stretching away on all sides, in part because the town borders a conserved 10,826-acre state wildlife management area. On the other hand, electric lights are no longer a novelty, and while cell service is spotty at best (if I stand on the highest rail of the cows’ winter paddock, I generally can get two bars’ worth), we enjoy all the benefits of high-speed Internet. It seems to me a fine balance of past and present, though were someone to open a small brewpub in town, I wouldn’t find reason to complain.

A lot of people will tell you that the Northeast Kingdom (aka NEK) is the most unspoiled and beautiful part of Vermont, and I don’t tend to argue—not so much because I agree, but because such things are forever in the eye of the beholder. In truth, there aren’t many parts of Vermont that aren’t capable of catching in my chest, of making me wonder what it’d be like to live right here, what sort of cabin I’d build at the crest of that grass-covered knoll, or tucked into that cool, quiet copse of balsam fir, or along the bank of the stream I watch tumble and churn as I pass in my car. Always wanting to stop, and always in too much of a hurry to get where I’m going to actually do so.

So perhaps the NEK is the most unspoiled and beautiful part of Vermont, and perhaps it isn’t. And perhaps it doesn’t matter anyway, except to those who’d choose to waste their precious breath arguing something so subjective. But one thing that’s not up for debate is that the Kingdom is one of the most economically challenged regions of the state. Like most rural areas in the United States, the Kingdom is grappling with an increasingly globalized and urbanized economy that seems not to value the land-based skills and resources that proliferate here.

The Kingdom’s economic challenges were supposed to have eased by now. In the January/February 2014 issue of Yankee, I wrote an article titled “Change Coming to the Kingdom.” It was about a massive influx of planned development that promised to infuse more than $600 million into the region. “The money will be splashed across a multitude of enterprises,” I wrote, “including (but not limited to) a biomedical facility and ‘research park,’ ... a waterfront marina and conference center, a reconstructed city block with retail and office space and short- to medium-term rentals, and an expanded ski resort. In total, the initiative is expected to create approximately 10,000 jobs in a region where the labor force is estimated at 30,750 people.”

The plan did not, in fact, unfold as predicted. Not even close. The reasons for this are complex in detail but simple in concept: The whole thing was a boondoggle, authorities say. A sham. Through a national program that promises green cards to foreign investors who commit at least $500,000 and create at least 10 jobs, the orchestrators of the Northeast Kingdom Economic Development Initiative allegedly misused more than $200 million of investor funds in a manner the Securities and Exchange Commission has described as “Ponzi-like.”

I enjoyed reporting “Change Coming to the Kingdom.” I wasn’t yet an official Kingdom resident, but I grew up in blue-collar rural Vermont, and the people I met felt comfortingly familiar to me. They were direct and unpretentious, whether expressing unreserved enthusiasm, resignation, or unreserved skepticism for the proposed development. “Yes, there’s going to be money,” Brenda Lepage had told me when I stopped by her namesake restaurant, Brenda’s Homestyle Cookin’, in Newport. “But for whom?”

Not long ago, I returned to Newport to see how the town had changed since the alleged fraud was uncovered. Naturally, my first stop was at Brenda’s; I’d hoped to find her at the grill, writing. “Newport is on the move. Keep positive,” read one. “Hope. Gratitude. Tenacity,” read another. Just beyond the fence, a set of concrete steps led to nowhere; weeds grew tall through cracks in the concrete, and I thought about something Pat Sagui had told me when I called her in the aftermath of the initiative’s collapse. A Kingdom resident, Sagui was one of the few people I’d contacted for the original story who had been willing to speak against the project. “How do our communities function under somewhat challenging, limited resources?” She’d paused a moment before answering herself. “Through goodwill, trust, volunteerism. Now, that’s been violated, and I suspect the next time someone comes along with a big idea, people might respond a little differently.” but she’d retired nearly three years earlier. So I was satisfied to sit and eat my blue cheese burger special (“The blue cheese is real!” my server told me) as I observed an older couple slowly making their way through their meal. The man wore a pair of work boots and a shirt embroidered with what I assumed to be his name: “Romeo.” After every two or three bites, they dabbed neatly at their mouths with napkins, often in tandem.

After my burger, I walked half a block up Main Street, to the chain link fence surrounding the cellar hole that was supposed to have been one of the cornerstone sites of the Northeast Kingdom Economic Development Initiative. An entire city block had been razed to make way for a new hotel, boutique retail space, and longer-term residential units, displacing a handful of small local businesses in the process. Yet the money to rebuild had gone missing, and now the chain link fence was decorated with multicolor ribbons, some with

I drove a meandering route out of Newport, eventually passing the small airport and the now-shuttered pizza joint I’d written about four years earlier. Pavement gave way to dirt, and at intersections I turned according to whim, content to watch through the windshield as the Kingdom slowly unfurled, a patchwork of field and forest, of trailer homes wrapped in deteriorating plastic, remnants of last winter’s windbreak, and listing farmhouses with flaking paint. Everywhere, it seemed, herds of cattle were grazing the late summer grass— Holsteins, mostly, but also Jerseys and Brown Swiss.

I stopped at a yard sale, parking next to an ’80s-era Ford pickup with a “REDNEK” bumper sticker, and for a quarter I bought a pair of Levi’s jeans in just my size. They weren’t perfect: There were some holes in the cuffs and scuff marks at the knees. Whoever had owned them before had worn them hard. But sometimes, it’s the rough edges that give a thing its character.