Maybe it is the small towns of Vermont, our rural character, Vermont tenacity, or the poverty. But towns in Vermont bare their history in way that is lost in many of the other places I have lived.

In other parts of New England, wrecking balls demolish the old for the bigger and better or new structures are built so close to the old that we no longer see the building for what it was – just a fragment clinging to some past glory. Other buildings, gentrified perfectly with repointed bricks, paints and scrubs, are simply a blank façade.

Morrisville, like so many Vermont towns, has seen the ebb and flow of economic growth.  The once vibrant railroad hub left behind for the trucks that travel away from the village along the new by-pass.  But like us, the village is always changing – the promise of new ideas and businesses fill the empty spaces – some staying for years, others just a few months, while vestiges of its history lie feet away, sometimes still in wait.

My husband Gary and I moved to Morrisville in 2015 after living in Massachusetts for 35 years.  We were drawn to Morrisville when our youngest daughter enrolled at Johnson State.  Like our daughter, we fell in love with Vermont -  the beauty, the people, the food, the outdoors.  After retiring, it took us three months to find a house and start a new life. For me that meant new learnings - expanding my love of road biking, getting out the camera that has been sitting in a closet unused and engaging with my new community. The joy of being retired is the gift to explore and hopefully produce something that is meaningful to someone beyond me.