When spring arrives in Quechee and the snow finally melts, I can walk my dog up the steep hill behind my house on High Street to the Hilltop Cemetery. The majestic trees, naked without their leaves, allow a view of Quechee Village and the Ottauquechee River below.
I can see past the covered bridge and the Meeting House cupola to the passing traffic on Route 4. I can see the waterfall that once powered the textile mill. I can see the barber shop where Ann welcomes one and all, and I can see my neighbor Rob as he chops and stacks firewood. I wave and shout out a greeting, but he’s focused on his chores, and the rush of the river drowns out the words.

Chris Denton

Standing in the cemetery with this storybook view, I think about the past buried with each headstone, family names and stories married to the soft earth. These are the roots of the Quechee community in physical form. I am interested in other people’s roots, likely because I have struggled with my own. Until now I’ve stayed on the move, chasing new assignments and new adventures. But geographic cures don’t work, the old timers say — “wherever you go, there you are.” Hilltop Cemetery invites this sort of thinking. My dog tilts her head at me, and we head back down the hill.
I came to the Upper Valley to be closer to my partner’s family. He had put up with my distant duty-stations and long hours, and it was time to reciprocate. From our small house on High Street, I set out to find places with deep roots in the community, and in short order discovered nearby spots including a coffee shop, barber shop, historic restaurant, and local bookstore.
All these places seemed to be frequented by common sense locals and outgoing visitors, and the conversations in the barber’s chair or at the restaurant bar all moved to the beat of the inevitable seasons, which served as a kind of metronome for the community. I learned a lot about how to properly tap a sugar-maple, for example, and the utility of the wood stove (necessary, not decorative).
The Prince and Pauper restaurant in Woodstock was the sort of place where, each time I visited, I was certain it would be the last. It reminded me of a charming coastal restaurant that dodges hurricanes year after year while storm clouds loom. The fleeting intimacy heightened the experience. My first time at the restaurant, I sat alone at the bar, and it didn’t take long for Clemens, the long-time bartender, to coax me into conversation with the regulars as he stood behind the cozy nook of a bar and shook martinis. I listened as a couple described coming to Woodstock every winter, and how each visit to the restaurant was celebrated like an anniversary, as they were married in the small dining room.

The Prince and the Pauper in Woodstock closed on March 14 after 51 years in business.

A block down the street is a 90-year-old bookstore where I found a Vermont-inspired cookbook with an ice cider pork chop recipe. Before living in Quechee, my culinary expertise began and ended with the takeout menu. But our local farmers market carries the specific cider and beautiful pork chops, and now that cider has been a mainstay in our house since its discovery. At my local barber shop, Ann patiently describes the process of sugaring and other Vermont chores and traditions. It was in that barber chair where I would learn that Chef Brad had moved on from his food truck to explore the National Parks (before they disappeared, he told me). I recognized that Quechee was tied to the seasons in a way that seemed foreign to me as a Floridian.
You see, in Florida we tame the environment, cooling the air for comfort and dredging up sand to “nourish” the beaches. In Quechee, on the other hand, there’s more of a gritty coexistence with the natural environment. Accepting the seasons as they come brings a kind of resilience, and a connection to the land and each other.

Hilltop Cemetery

Back on High Street, I am growing into my own feeling of rootedness. I can hear the nearby waterfall, reminding me that the river and the seasons keep flowing, so maybe I don’t need to move as much. I look forward to new local restaurants and cafes, the next conversation that yields a nugget of wisdom, and the discovery of more quintessential Vermont recipes.. As the sun sets at the Hilltop Cemetery, I wonder, can it be that my wandering days are over?