Two years before I had the thought to apply to, what was, NVU-Johnson, I created a playlist: “If I Stay Here, I Can’t Grow”; songs that had fleeting mention about leaving home found their way in there. I would listen religiously, envisioning everything that was coming my way. Little did I know that I was soon on my way out.

Not even three days after celebrating 21 trips around the sun, my mother and I loaded up the yellow Toyota Matrix XR with Wisconsin license plates that you most likely have seen around campus. Boxes of clothes, bedding, and decor found its way into the back of my car instead of my room where it had been housed for years and years. Blocking the view of my rear windshield, I had to say goodbye to everyone and everything I’ve ever known. That day was the day I started my new tradition: try not to cry too loud to Townes Van Zandt’s “I’ll Be Here in the Morning,” a song that shares a story about supporting someone who is leaving all they’ve ever known for things they’ve never known.

We set off on our long, treacherous journey to none other than “Fuck-Ass Johnson,” Vermont – a nickname I proudly came up with during my second year here. Something about using “fuck-ass” as a term of endearment just felt right. Before I started my freshman year, I would tell people Johnson was a college town; I had to apologize for spewing straight bullshit to their faces. This isn’t a college town! This is a town with a college in it.

During the three days of driving, no-frills hotel rooms, and an unbearable amount of gas station breaks, I fantasized about the life I was going to make for myself. A casual 1,000+ miles later, my mom and I found ourselves unloading the car in the Martinetti staff lot. We made trips up and down the three flights of stairs before getting even more snippy with each other. I had to leave for Bridge check-in, which meant she had to leave campus. Neither of us were really ready to say goodbye, so instead we yelled. Later that night I snuck out of my blistering room to give her a real farewell. How could one repay 21 years of life and love in one gesture?

I was raised in cities so big I call them “a capitalist’s wet dream.” Where else can you find a combination Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, and KFC, next to the third McDonald’s you’ve passed within a mile radius? (No, seriously, tell me; I’m craving a Baja Blast, breadsticks, a 12-piece all dark meat family meal, and a Big Mac.) And if I needed to walk all that off? Thank goodness there was a Target 500 feet away! A quick walk through the Dick’s Sporting Goods I haven’t stepped foot in since I was 13 would heal me. A stroll through Michael’s to drop $30 on a craft I’ll never pick up again seems like a good idea right now.

But I don’t have that luxury anymore. Instead, I can go to any of the five dispensaries ten minutes away from me. What about the new boba shop in town? Johnson Chinese Kitchen sounds pretty good, but it’s Tuesday. They’re closed on Tuesdays. Marsala Salsa? I’ve never been there, but who doesn’t want an Italian/Mexican fusion? Maybe I’ll stop by one salon for a cut and then head on over to the other mere seconds away for a color. Dollar General sounds kind of fun! But they don’t have any fresh produce. I guess I have to go two towns over just for the cucumber recipe I saw on TikTok. It only takes a little bit of gas. My gas light isn’t on yet, so I should be okay.

All that to say, don’t miss out on a community event in Fuck-Ass Johnson. Introduce yourself to the Maplefield’s workers, talk to the barista at Jenna’s, ask the bartender how their day’s going. These are the people who are the backbone of society.

No one told me I would have to introduce my car tires to one lane roads, regular speed limits of 50MPH, curves through the mountains, and a lifetime’s worth of dirt roads. Once, a rock shot out from someone’s back tire and took the initiative to introduce itself to my front windshield. Investing in the right insurance, like one that covers windshield cracks and deer running into your car, is always a good idea. You’d never think you would need it until you’re carless for six months.

Having strategies for easy living comes hand in hand with country living. For example, when you’re making a list of things to get, make sure to put everything you think you need as well as things you think you don’t. This will help with saving gas, money, and time. Because of this, I planned out a whole day around a Walmart trip because I needed an immersion blender for tomato soup. Why would I drive for two hours just for one thing I don’t need when I can hit five different stops and spend even more money I don’t have all at the same time? I awaited the arrival of my mini fridge after days of leaving food out in the open. It took me a while to realize that nothing was an arm’s length away anymore.
But soon enough, I learned about the niches that come with small-town living. My extensive research on the countryside lifestyle – Heartland, Little House on the Prairie, Hart of Dixie – prepared me well. I knew I would find a community soon enough!

My mother graciously agreed to yet another road trip; leaving home sweet home in Milwaukee to visit me in Fuck-Ass Johnson, Vermont. Once we spent the maximum amount of time in Fuck-Ass Johnson, we hit the road to spend her birthday in Burlington. As she was taking in everything I’ve already seen (at least seven times), she pointed out a sign for picking your own blueberries.  

I told her she was going crazy. I didn’t see it, so, of course, it didn’t happen. I already thought that the idea, let alone the amount, of self-service farms was absurd. But now I have the option to pick my own blueberries! Oh, glory be to God! I should’ve whipped out a Vermont Turnaround, licking drips of a maple creemee off my hand. I’m man enough to admit that it wasn’t until after I dropped her off with teary eyes and a tight hug at the Burlington Airport that I saw that sign with my own two eyes. I guess this is my formal apology: Mother, oh sweet, sweet mother, how I apologize to thee. My humble eyes may not have grazed over the biggest tourist attraction of Fuck-Ass Johnson, Vermont, but that was no excuse to suggest that you get tested for PTSD-induced schizophrenia. I should have known to trust you. I should have known …  

Even though the laborious, yet enjoyable, task of picking my own blueberries has not made its way into my schedule, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be a part of yours! Visit all the farms in all the lands! 

If you would’ve told me when I was in my naive youth that I would be living in rural Vermont I would’ve probably said that I could see it, but I can tell you right now it would not be me. That bitch would’ve made Holden Caulfield seem like he was sworn in on the Bible and was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him, God. A 13-year-old Cohen would tell you they’d be living in luxury by the time they’re 25. But just because it’s not the way they imagined, doesn’t mean it didn’t come true.  

Although I may not have the name, job, and love language for everyone who lives on Main Street memorized, that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt a community all around me. A community that loves and cares for its farmers, family, friends, and flatlanders.