Memoirs of a Moderator

By John McClaughry

On a brisk March day in 1967, my neighbors rather suddenly chose me to moderate town meeting.

This struck me as a wholly unlikely event. I had come to the Northeast Kingdom town of Kirby in May of 1963, on foot, with a knapsack, sleeping bag, an axe, and Kephart's Camping and Woodcraft. I started to build a log cabin on the 206 acre piece of land on Kirby Mountain that I had bought one year before. The price was $2400. The payment terms were 6% interest and three years to pay it off.

With the help of two college pals with time on their hands, we got the cabin up and (barely) livable by August. But since I didn't have a source of income, I went off to Washington to work for a short-lived Republican magazine, and then as a legislative aide for Vermont Senator Winston Prouty.

Though working six hundred miles away, I was eager to be a freeman of my town. In 1965 I drove all the way up from Washington for town meeting – only to find out, to my great embarrassment, that town meetings are held in the morning, not at 7:00pm. When town meeting 1966 rolled around, I was there early, listened to the proceedings, but didn't say anything.

A year later, I was slouched in my seat among 35 other townspeople when to my surprise the town Republican chair, Grace Emery of North Kirby, nominated me for moderator. The nomination was seconded by Virginia Wood, the town clerk from South Kirby. One minute later I was handed the gavel. I later learned that the long time moderator, a retired farmer named Theodore Simpson, was ill in the hospital (and soon after, died.) There were factions in town, north and south, and my nominators had agreed that as a newcomer and a neutral (the northernmost resident of South Kirby!) my election would not give rise to any factional backbiting.

Having experienced only one town meeting, I was pretty much at sea. I had been in the student senate in high school and college, so I had some idea of the rules of order. In any case, I managed to get through my first trial without making any noticeable mistakes.

I have no recollection of what was debated that day, but one amusing thing happened that I still chuckle about

My roots were in small town southern Illinois, where I had been raised by grandparents after my mother died suddenly and my father went off to war. Southern Illinois shares an accent with Kentucky and the Missouri Ozarks. By 1967, I had been gone some years, but my accent was still noticeable.
Most Kirby residents really didn't know who I was. I hadn't grown up in or around the town and had no local schoolmates or relatives. To most, I was “the kid from down country who built the log cabin up on the mountain.” I was, I suppose, suspect for being a college graduate flatlander with citified values and attitudes, and a curious accent to boot.

I was thus enormously relieved to overhear a white haired gent, in the line at the pot luck luncheon, observe to the person ahead of him: “He ain't from around hyuh, but he's a hick from somewheyuh.”

Every year since that meeting, my townspeople have re-elected me to be their moderator. I am enormously proud and honored that they have done so. Kirby is certainly far from the world stage. The town has no retail businesses, no church, no post office, no village center, and no school. Its residents get mail from at least five different post offices. Its population in 1967 was about 250; today it's around 500.

And yet the people of my small town carry on a proud tradition of democratic self-government. Over the years, the subjects of their civic responsibilities have withered. The state took away welfare in 1966. Under state pressure our last (of six) one-room schools closed in 1978; all of our 80 children are tuitioned out to public and independent schools in nearby towns. Act 200 (of 1988) tried (unsuccessfully, as it turned out) to tell us what our townscape needed to look like. We are allowed to do only what state law allows. Today, the town's main functions are record keeping, elections, taxing, planning and zoning, and road maintenance.

Even with this very limited scope for action, there have been some memorable moments. One came in the early 1990s when the selectboard concluded that the town's single truck needed repair or replacement. Should we replace it, or patch it up for another winter? If we decided to replace it, would we buy new or used? GMC or Ford or International?

What was interesting about this discussion was that it drew out the best in two citizens, both of them truck drivers. Neither had ever taken much part in debates over schools, listing, or town spending. But now was their moment. They knew trucks.

The road commissioner leaned toward buying a late model used truck. I can't remember the make - let's say it was a GMC. But Tom (let's call him) protested. “They had one of them Jimmys over in Wheelock, and mister, if that thing hit a frost heave hard it'd bust an axle sure as we're setting here.” But Dave (let's call him) took issue. “The engines in them Internationals don't hold up. I had to tear one down after 40 thousand miles, and it was a reg'lar mess inside.”
And so it went back and forth for maybe twenty minutes. The townspeople who weren't farmers, logger, or mechanics had a hard time keeping up with this debate. But finally those who knew trucks came to a consensus, and it was duly voted. What I remember was not the outcome – I can't even remember what we decided. What I do remember was that every citizen fully understood that he or she would have his or her moment, when he or she had something knowledgeable to contribute that others needed to hear before making a decision.

Another interesting moment in local democracy occurred in the early 1970s. The legislature had given towns the option of exempting livestock (cows) from property taxation. The town had to make its choice. The dairy farmers thought that their cows ought to be exempt. Thanks to the farms, the town enjoyed open space, landscapes, and the rural character that we all valued. Dairy farming is a tough business The tax exemption would strengthen farm balance sheets a little, and encourage farmers to keep on farming.

This argument was heard respectfully. No one wanted to say no to the dairy farmers, in Kirby much admired. But exempting the cows meant that everyone else would have to pick up the tax burden. Other folks were pinched financially as well. Some were retired on fixed incomes. Some had to drive considerable distances for jobs paying very modest wages. Some were out of work, or had a lot of mouths to feed.

There were no angry speeches, no finger pointing, no harsh words. Little by little, the farmers saw that they were asking a bit too much. A motion was made to exempt half the cows on each farm. Duly voted.

And so the people of Kirby worked out what to do about the town truck, and how to distribute the property tax burden. Small matters. Insignificant matters. Yes, but in a different way, very important matters.

For every freeman attending those meetings, and many others, understood that “I am a free Vermonter and a citizen of my town. I have the right to stand and speak my piece. I have the opportunity and the duty to work with my fellow citizens toward an outcome that, after debate and reflection, seems right and fair for all of us. In much of America and the world, democracy is little more than casting ballots. Here, real democracy rules.”

This core belief among those who venerate town meeting is the wellspring of every free, just and progressive society. Admittedly, town meeting as held in Kirby won't work when towns get too large. But if the spirit of our free institutions is to survive and flourish, Vermonters need to find ways to apply the same principle on a larger scale, so that every freeman and woman can believe that they count, that their voice matters, and that the opportunity for civic contribution and civic virtue lies always before them.