morning to inform me that our liquor license was in. She went on to say I might as well register my dog and get sworn in while I was there, too, seeing as how I was a new citizen and all. Betty warned me they left by three o’clock most days, so if I wanted to be sure to get the license, I had better come before then.
When I arrived at the town clerk’s office, around noon, a man was sitting behind the counter. I walked in, all smiles and eager to meet our town diplomat. He slowly rose to greet me. “Can I help you?”
“Hey there. I’m Leelee Satterfield. My husband and I just bought theVermont Haus Inn.” I pointed in our direction up the street. “I’m here to pick up our liquor license.”
Apparently, it’s a big deal to obtain a liquor license. The state looks into your background and the town aldermen (we say councilmen) have to vote in unanimous agreement before they will issue one.
The man from behind the desk spoke with a thick Vermonter accent. “Yuup, I’ve gut it reet here. The name’s Jack Sweeney.” He laid the document on the counter.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney. I spoke with your wife, Betty, on the phone this morning. She was so helpful. Is she here?”
He hesitated before answering. “Nuup. She’s gun to lunch.”
“Oh well, maybe next time. How long have you been the town clerk?” I asked, as I was signing the documents.
“Close to ten years now, I suppose.”
“Is that right? Have you and Mrs. Sweeney been working together all that time?”
“Yuup.”
“Have you really?”
“Yuup.”
“Is this a full-time job for both of you?”
“Yuup.”
For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what could keep two full-time employees busy all day. The town hall had an office and a meeting room and one more small room. (A month later I rented the smaller room for Isabella’s third birthday party and the cost for the afternoon was eight dollars. I got the resident rate.)
We chatted for about ten minutes, mostly about moose. When I asked if he’d ever seen one in person, he said, “Only once’t. And that was somewhere close to the Canadian border. All the moose crossin’ signs for Willingham and Fairhope are ordered through this office but it’s pretty silly if you ask me. Moose are rarely seen around here.”
I can’t even tell you how disappointed I was to hear that. Even still, I was determined to beat the odds.
As I started to leave, I remembered Betty Sweeney’s other requests. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’m supposed to register my dog. We get licenses back home in Tennessee, too. It proves they’ve had their rabies shot each year. Is that what your registration is for?”
“Nuup, we need to know how many dogs we’ve gut in town. Is yours a bitch or a stud?”
“Princess Grace Kelly is a girl,” I told him, rather indignantly. “And she’s up to date on all of her shots.”
“That’s good.” He slid the registration papers and the liquor license across the counter, and handed me a pen.
“Oh, and Betty mentioned something about getting sworn in?”
“Raise your reet hand, please.”
I obliged.
“Do you swear to support your town and vote faithfully and attend all town meetings?”
“I do.”
With that I finished the paperwork and drove back to the inn to check on the girls. As soon as I walked through the door, our personal telephone line in the apartment started ringing.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Mrs. Satterfield?”
“Yes.”
“Jack Sweeney here, how are you?”
The same as I was forty-five seconds ago . “Fine, Mr. Sweeney, how are you?”
“I’m alreet, thanks for askin’. I thought I’d call and let you know something, ’fore you hear it from anyone else. Betty’s not my wife.”
“She’s not ?” I know I sounded shocked but I couldn’t help it.
“Nuup, hasn’t been for five years now.”
I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was calling to cry on my shoulder or let me know he was available.
When I arrived at the town clerk’s office, around noon, a man was sitting behind the counter. I walked in, all smiles and eager to meet our town diplomat. He slowly rose to greet me. “Can I help you?”
“Hey there. I’m Leelee Satterfield. My husband and I just bought theVermont Haus Inn.” I pointed in our direction up the street. “I’m here to pick up our liquor license.”
Apparently, it’s a big deal to obtain a liquor license. The state looks into your background and the town aldermen (we say councilmen) have to vote in unanimous agreement before they will issue one.
The man from behind the desk spoke with a thick Vermonter accent. “Yuup, I’ve gut it reet here. The name’s Jack Sweeney.” He laid the document on the counter.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney. I spoke with your wife, Betty, on the phone this morning. She was so helpful. Is she here?”
He hesitated before answering. “Nuup. She’s gun to lunch.”
“Oh well, maybe next time. How long have you been the town clerk?” I asked, as I was signing the documents.
“Close to ten years now, I suppose.”
“Is that right? Have you and Mrs. Sweeney been working together all that time?”
“Yuup.”
“Have you really?”
“Yuup.”
“Is this a full-time job for both of you?”
“Yuup.”
For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what could keep two full-time employees busy all day. The town hall had an office and a meeting room and one more small room. (A month later I rented the smaller room for Isabella’s third birthday party and the cost for the afternoon was eight dollars. I got the resident rate.)
We chatted for about ten minutes, mostly about moose. When I asked if he’d ever seen one in person, he said, “Only once’t. And that was somewhere close to the Canadian border. All the moose crossin’ signs for Willingham and Fairhope are ordered through this office but it’s pretty silly if you ask me. Moose are rarely seen around here.”
I can’t even tell you how disappointed I was to hear that. Even still, I was determined to beat the odds.
As I started to leave, I remembered Betty Sweeney’s other requests. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’m supposed to register my dog. We get licenses back home in Tennessee, too. It proves they’ve had their rabies shot each year. Is that what your registration is for?”
“Nuup, we need to know how many dogs we’ve gut in town. Is yours a bitch or a stud?”
“Princess Grace Kelly is a girl,” I told him, rather indignantly. “And she’s up to date on all of her shots.”
“That’s good.” He slid the registration papers and the liquor license across the counter, and handed me a pen.
“Oh, and Betty mentioned something about getting sworn in?”
“Raise your reet hand, please.”
I obliged.
“Do you swear to support your town and vote faithfully and attend all town meetings?”
“I do.”
With that I finished the paperwork and drove back to the inn to check on the girls. As soon as I walked through the door, our personal telephone line in the apartment started ringing.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Mrs. Satterfield?”
“Yes.”
“Jack Sweeney here, how are you?”
The same as I was forty-five seconds ago . “Fine, Mr. Sweeney, how are you?”
“I’m alreet, thanks for askin’. I thought I’d call and let you know something, ’fore you hear it from anyone else. Betty’s not my wife.”
“She’s not ?” I know I sounded shocked but I couldn’t help it.
“Nuup, hasn’t been for five years now.”
I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was calling to cry on my shoulder or let me know he was available.
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