White trailers sit sunk in dirty snow with pinkish insulation blocking rusted windows and doors to keep the howling wind out. The trailers look like over-stuffed marshmallows with billows of gray smoke pumping out into the frosty air. This time of year, around Christmas, a lone tree stuck in the middle of the lawn is often haphazardly draped with large, gaudy, rainbow- colored lights, and the plow comes through around 5 a.m. with a splash of salt and dirt from the road, coating everything within range. Every spring, when the ice frees up and the snow melts, we fear the raging waters of the Lamoille River. The river is so strong that Army engineers mount floodlights on granite slabs and place them high in the trees.
Many people leave the area each day for work because there is nothing for easy profit locally.
Only the loggers, country store owners and the mailman can be seen on a weekday afternoon. The mailman is sometimes the only hint of civilization a person sees when their house is out in the woods. While his daily visit is expected, there is no rhythm to his route. Houses are scattered, driveways are primitive, and one never knows when snow or mud will block the path. Comforting noises such as trees cracking from the cold and tires whining on ice can be heard on nights when the only light is the black, starry sky in the Kingdom.