Purdyville is way up in a lost corner of Vermont's NEK, way up, where they'll never have broadband-I don't care who the governor is, they'll never have broadband.
Purdyville people think the Internet is the mesh thing sewn into your swimmin' britches that keeps your stuff from dangling in the water when you're wadin' around the swimming hole on Memorial Day going "FWHEeeeee, FWHEeeeee, FWHEeeeee."
Purdyville is far up and out of the way; the American president wouldn't find it if Osama Bin Laden was standing naked in the middle of the town green peggin' lit fire crackers at frogs.
I guarantee, anyone you ask-be it an old life-long Vermonter, a flatlander genius, an over-the-road vacuum salesman, even a member of Vermont's 251 club-will not be able to direct you to Purdyville. No one knows where Purdyville is. Almost no one anyways cause, I do.
Why do I know where Purdyville is? Two words: good eats.
Purdyville gives the best early fall potluck dinner in the universe and solar system. I've been going for 17-skip one, then four more-years-straight. Twenty-one total years I been going to the Purdyville Pot luck and counting and I couldn't be more proud 'bout it.
Best baked beans in the world at the Purdyville Pot Luck cause they bake the beans that are shaped like miniature plump frank furts, that curl up on each side-the big beans, not them little dinky ones no bigger than a M&M. But, you'll be lucky to have any Purdyville Pot Luck dinner baked beans, cause you ain't going to find Purdyville, I'd bet.
At the Purdyville Pot Luck last Saturday, I see a guy eating alone. A small balled up gnomish guy, wearing worn rubber barn boots, thick green woolen pants, a quilt-lined shirt, and a filthy but supple deer skin vest. His bushy salt and pepper beard presented wonderfully as a work of sculpture; a woven extension of his stringy shoulder length hair that stung like a broom down from under the most beautiful fox hat you ever see.
With my full plate, I set down across from the man and started in to sup. "Some hat," I said, aiming my fork between the ma and pa Pilgrim salt and peppershakers, toward the man's fox hat.
With an accent thick as frozen roof pitch, he spoke.
"The hat 'tiz bin up the addik eveh since. I doan gowup thayaire, 'fraid a dusst n' cludder. I'ymabit clahhstrafobic ... doan loike smawll areahs," he said.
He was hard to understand, but well worth the work it took to converse.
"I wuz hungree. Tole the ole ladee I wuz headed to et, to a Pot Luck dinnir, I tole er. She sed 'hoew long yew be?' Tole er I didn't know, tole er the dinnir was in Purdyville. She said, 'Waire the fox hat!'"
Rusty DeWees tours Vermont and Northern New York with his act "The Logger." His column appears weekly. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Listen for The Logger, Rusty DeWees, Thursdays at 7:40 on the Big Station, 98.9 WOKO