Let’s start with the most important part: We are, of course, grateful to you. For reading, listening, watching and supporting the work of our content team. We enjoy what we get to do, and we think it’s important, and we know that none of it is possible without you. Thank you.
As for other things: We queried our staff, asking them to write about something they were grateful for in 2024. We left the parameters intentionally vague, but were still struck by the diversity (and, um, weirdness?) of what they wrote about.
So, we submit to you on this holiday week tales of French toast and pizza, eclipses and rainbows, bears and churches and much more. Happy Thanksgiving.
Gifford Medical Center staffer
I’m grateful for Tom from food services at Gifford Medical Center in Randolph. I don’t know his last name, but I know he was the first person to meet my son, Asa, other than the nurses and midwife in the delivery room, and my wife and me.
“Can I come in?” he said that morning, lingering in the doorway. He was the first evidence of an outside world that barely registered in my sleep-addled, new father brain. And he made a compelling case for entry — plates piled with custardy French toast, maple syrup, fresh fruit and strong coffee.
Tom walked towards us and arranged our breakfast on the table. He didn’t seem like a stranger, even though we’d never met.
“He’s beautiful,” he said to my wife after seeing Asa, who was not even two hours old.
Then he turned to me, and I could see tears welling up in his eyes. “Nice work, dude,” he said as he offered me a fist bump.
Tom explained that his job entails delivering food to inpatients at Gifford — often people who are located in the birthing center or in the nearby “Garden rooms” receiving end-of-life care.
“I help people on their way in and on their way out,” he said.
Then he turned around and left.
I’m grateful for Tom, the unexpected neighbor who welcomed my new family into the community — and left behind the best French toast I’ve ever tasted.
- Josh Crane, senior producer and managing editor, engagement journalism
Rutland bell choir
Something happens when I put on the black cotton gloves. They have little grippy dots so I can turn the pages of my music. You need to wear gloves to keep away the natural oils on your hands. They’re not good for the expensive bronze bells we use. I play two octaves worth of E, F and F sharp, as well as some other notes depending on the song. They’re in the upper range and figuring out how to hold two bells in each hand and play them separately and together has been a fun challenge. Getting them to ring with some semblance of nuance and skill is something else entirely.
I’m one of 10 women in the Bells of Joy handbell choir, a Rutland-area group that’s been playing together for more than 40 years. I’m one of the newbies, having started five or six years ago.
Ironically, my job as a reporter is how I ended up playing with the group. I did a story on them many years ago and was fascinated by the different sounds they could make with their bells and chimes. Learning the different techniques, playing alongside the others and harmonizing is such a rush. I’ve played piano for years and have been trying to learn the ukulele. But being part of a group that makes music together feels completely different and more fun. I’m so grateful to be part of it.
When I’m ringing I’m completely focused, and the world disappears as the music begins.
- Nina Keck, senior reporter
Rainbows over Burlington
Vermont is more prone to rainbows than anywhere else I’ve lived. I have no actual scientific proof for this, except for the fact that I’ve seen more than a dozen rainbows this year, and that feels like a lot. Something about the particular mix of rain and sun we get, combined with the rolling hills and sight lines, makes this place ripe for rainbows.
My favorite rainbow of 2024 came while biking home from an event at the Intervale Center in Burlington this past summer. My 3-year-old was strapped in her blue seat on the back of my bike. As I pedaled us over a wooden bridge near our house, we saw a big honker of a rainbow to our left. It was Lucky Charms-style, enormous and so vivid that a giant hand might’ve painted it on just for us. “We are seeing magic!” my daughter shouted. And lo, a second rainbow appeared over the first, as if to match our two enormous grins. Later, my neighborhood text chain lit up with rainbow photos — all of us adults as delighted as children.
As my daughter transitions from toddlerdom to kidhood, she’s starting to understand the world and its realities, which can sometimes be cruel. But I don’t think rainbows will ever lose their magic for her. At least they haven’t for me. They’re here and gone, all in just a few minutes. But that feeling of luck that you saw one at all, as you squint through the sun and the rain? That lasts.
–Mikaela Lefrak, host/senior producer of Vermont Edition
Bovine puppet in Burlington
We all watched as the enormous Holstein puppet’s head knocked into the lamps and chandeliers hanging from the bar ceiling as the puppeteer gingerly walked up the stage steps while two handlers worked the cow's front limbs.
This was “Freak Church,” an evening of performances curated by local artist Content Clown, on a recent Saturday at Light Club Lamp Shop in Burlington. It was meant to be an “altar to the absurd.”
A dozen or so artists from Vermont’s queer and trans community performed music and dance acts both sacred and campy.
I was in attendance in a supportive role, as my adult child was among the performers. And I quickly felt gratitude to witness the show and its culmination.
The cow puppet was now being fitted with a 4-foot length of plastic tubing and funnel system, through which a red liquid would be poured to shoot through the puppet’s udder and into the crowd.
In one final Freak Church act, those in the room were invited to close their eyes and picture a queer or trans person we know, then to imagine them developing wrinkles and sprouting a head full of gray hair — the audacious act of growing old.
As the parent of trans kids, I was so grateful for a whole room full of people serving up that plea to the universe that I send up every day.
- Mary Engisch, host of All Things Considered
The Round Church in Richmond
It’s not clear why Richmond resident William Rhodes opted to build a 16-side shaped meeting house, instead of a rectangle. Perhaps it was to keep the devil from hiding in corners, or maybe Rhodes was a hipster. More likely, the Richmond Historical Society says, is that he saw a similar building in New Hampshire.
The Round Church opened its doors in 1814 as a community gathering place and home to five Protestant congregations. It took nearly 20 years to get to that point because, in typical Vermont fashion, there was a lot of community input and no one could agree.
The last worship services at the church were in the 1880s, and Richmond held its last town meeting there in 1972. The church still hosts concerts, including an annual holiday carol sing, and private events, like my wedding.
A wedding is a celebration of love. But it’s also a fusing of family and friends — a community meeting. What better place to host this event than a place where people have worshiped, sang and argued about town governance for more than 200 years.
A wedding is a celebration of love. But it’s also a fusing of family and friends — a community meeting.Liam Elder-Connors
In early September, my soon-to-be-wife Chelsea and I stood in the Round Church, surrounded by family and friends, and declared our love. As the church bell rang, I cried, joyful to be marrying the love of my life, and overwhelmed by the presence of those gathered to witness — overwhelmed by community, which I imagine is a familiar feeling within the 16 walls of this church.
- Liam Elder-Connors, senior reporter
Totality in St. Albans
I will carry memories of Vermont’s great eclipse with me for the rest of my life. As one of our team’s video producers, I was on assignment in St. Albans. Located in the path of totality and promising a long view of the total eclipse of 3 minutes and 38 seconds, Taylor Park was bound to draw a good crowd. In anticipation, I stayed overnight with a friend who lived a few blocks away to ensure access.
By mid-morning, folks were trickling in at a steady rate. The city brought in classic food vendors, jugglers, crafts for the kids and live music. The band brought a full complement of appropriate cover tunes: Bill Withers’ "Ain’t No Sunshine," Bruce Springsteen’s "Blinded by the Light" and, of course, Pink Floyd’s "Brain Damage."
People came from as far away as California. Many had seen a total eclipse before, but nobody would fully describe the experience. "Just wait," they said. "You really have to just live it."
During totality, I was filming as many reactions as possible. But when I paused to take it in myself, I was overwhelmed with a sense of connectedness. The immediate drop in light, sound and temperature created a multisensory vibe that seemed to render us all spellbound, focused on the moon ring and taking time to gaze into the universe. I thought about the thousand-plus people around me and everyone in the path of totality and everyone who had ever experienced an eclipse. I felt connected to our ancient ancestors who didn’t have the luxury of an explanation of what they were experiencing. How cathartic it must have been for them to slowly realize the world wasn’t ending. And it made me sad to think of all the people who would never see an eclipse.
- Mike Dunn, producer/director
Magic: The Gathering card bin, Vermont Gaming Academy in South Burlington
I will remember this as the year my second grade son fell in love with the card game Magic: The Gathering, as I once did, for just a couple years, a few long decades ago. (For the uninitiated, think Dungeons & Dragons, but with lushly illustrated cards that you collect, assemble into decks and deploy against fellow players.)
We occasionally spring for a fresh pack of Magic cards. But those yield only a fleeting thrill. The better move has been to take a trip to the Vermont Gaming Academy in South Burlington’s University Mall, where they sell old, used cards in bulk.
We have whiled away many happy hours, standing or sitting behind their bins, shuffling through bottomless troves of cards. We pull out stacks of griffins with flying, leviathans with trample, elves with reach, artifacts that increase our mana count. The names of these things — ”Hamlet Glutton,” "Kastral, the Windcrested,” “High-Rise Sawjack,” — and what they have done for his reading, his vocabulary, his imagination…
The cards are 25 cents apiece, six for a buck, and the cashiers — who seem even happier to support a young gamer than I am — sometimes cut us an even better deal. The kid usually leaves the store skipping down the mall’s corridor.
Our tiny ranch house is struggling to contain our collection. But as we sit at our living room table, plotting our attacks, reading through the cards’ intricate instructions, delighting in the game’s complexity, it seems a small price to pay.
- Mark Davis, senior editor
A large animal vet from West Bolton
Kittery is a Morgan horse. He and I have belonged to one another since I was 12 and he was 7. As I grew older and went off to college and my first jobs away from home, I relied on my mom to help. She loved and cared for Kittery for years, until she died in 2021.
After losing my mom, it was suddenly my job to look after this 1,000-pound horse. (And to look after more family members, but that’s a different story.) He moved with me to Vermont. It was nice — if pricey — to relearn the rhythms of vet visits, dewormer, grain and budgeting for board.
Over the summer, Kittery started having trouble breathing. And he needed a… tracheotomy! A permanent hole in his throat. Overwhelming isn’t a big enough word.
My local large animal vet, Dr. Anne Finlayson, saved us. She visited at all hours, talked me through options with the surgeon, found people to trailer us, showed me how to give penicillin shots (the ones with the giant needle), brought us electrolytes and tranquilizers and so much gauze, figured out the best way to clean a tracheostomy site, answered my panicky text messages on weekends, and celebrated with me when, after two full months, Kittery finally healed enough to return outside.
I have infinite gratitude for you, Dr. Finlayson. You made a very tough time a lot less lonely.
- Elodie Reed, reporter
Ida pizzeria in Burlington
This year I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about where my food comes from. Interestingly enough, I had a pizzeria to help me get there.
I’m about to crack into a touchy subject because this is a controversial restaurant: Ida, in Burlington’s Old North End. It’s become a point of contention for locals on social media because of the idiosyncratic owner, Dan, and the high cost of his food.
Their base cheese pizza costs $40. I know, it’s a lot. But when I say this is a transformative pie — I’m not kidding. And, come on, the thing is massive. But more importantly, Dan and co-owner Erica’s seasonal rotations and outlook on dining are what finally gave me the kick to think about how I can rotate my own food supply, and think more consciously about where and when I get my dinner. Have you ever put squash or fig on a pizza? Neither had I before I ate at Ida, and it changed my perspective on food.
It’s clear these pizzaiolos care about their product deeply. They detail each ingredient with love, support local and exotic ingredients, and stand against your typical “commodity” market. Sure, they can sometimes show their love in… interesting ways: I once watched a woman pick up a to-go order, bring it to a table and start eating, only to have the owner tell her to leave. They are also known to occasionally get into salty exchanges with customers on social media — telling off individuals that, in their words, “don’t respect honest work.”
But interesting is what I’m looking for in dining. They're passionate in ways that may turn off some, but they offer something far beyond a regular dining experience.
- Joey Palumbo, producer/director
Forbearance in Westmore
It took a beat for Bird to register what she was seeing.
That’s partly because she’s gone mostly deaf and blind in her old age. And partly because the bear didn’t enter our line of sight until after we turned a corner going up Bald Mountain in Westmore.
No more than 15 feet separated my 12-year-old coonhound from a fully grown black bear that was now reared on its hind legs. I froze. My dog froze. The bear shot up the nearest tree faster than I could have fallen out of it.
I’m not saying human encounters with bears are a good thing. I am saying that few experiences have made me feel more fully alive than being eye-to-eye with one.
This most recent encounter — my second in the last three years — happened in late spring. And more and more Vermonters are getting to experience the adrenaline high of sharing space with an animal that could end your life with a swipe of its paw.
State wildlife officials say there were 1,400 human-bear encounters in 2022, about 10 times the number in 2016.
Those encounters have gone shockingly well for the humans. There were a couple bear “attacks” in 2022, in Winhall and Strafford, one of which occurred after the human’s dog chased a mother’s cub up a tree. Both incidents resulted in non-life-threatening injuries to the humans.
Not an ideal outcome for the victims, of course. Also hard not to marvel at, and be grateful for, the bears’ restraint.
- Pete Hirschfeld, senior reporter
Drawing night in Burlington
Every Tuesday, I go to a figure drawing night at Karma Bird House in Burlington. It started as a way to meet people after I moved to Vermont. I also needed to rest my eyeballs on something other than a screen and create art with my hands.
At first, I took myself way too seriously. I kept erasing pencil lines and starting over, never satisfied. I tried using charcoal and hated how it smeared everywhere. I switched over to colored pencils and never looked back. Working in greens and pinks and purples reminds me that this is all meant to be fun. No need to be so serious.
Working in greens and pinks and purples reminds me that this is all meant to be fun. No need to be so serious.Andrea Laurion
Halfway through each session, the organizer has everyone introduce themselves and answer a weekly question. What’s something new you want to explore in your artistic practice? What qualities do you look for in a leader? What’s a good place to eat around here? Most come pretty regularly, but there’s always new faces, so it’s a good way to get to know people and break the ice. At the end, we walk around the room and check out each other’s work. Everyone’s styles vary so widely, it’s really inspiring, and I’ve learned a lot just from observing the artists around me.
These drawing sessions have become part of my weekly routine in a way I hadn't expected. It hit me at some point that I had become a regular, which is nice. Some people go to church, I go to drawing.
– Andrea Laurion, Vermont Edition news producer
Walker Farm in Dummerston
Walker Farm closes for the season every year on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and it’s an annual tradition for me to visit on that last day to pick up veggies for the holiday and say goodbye. I always bring a helping of roasted Vermont root vegetables to Thanksgiving; Gilfeather turnip, carrot, kohlrabi, rutabaga and parsnip, cooked simply in olive oil and salt.
I’m grateful for the work everyone does at Walker Farm. It’s like having a farmers market, seven days a week. And it’s not just carrots and lettuce and corn. I look forward to their poblano peppers every year to make chili rellenos. I’m grateful for their broccolini, haricot vert, a rainbow of hot peppers, purple daikon and Japanese eggplant. I’m a proud foodie, and my life would be less fun without Walker Farm.
Jack and Karen Manix have been working those fields along Route 5 for 51 years. I’ve been there first thing in the morning when Jack is piling up freshly picked corn, and at the end of a cold October day, when Karen is the only one in the farmstand, happy to ring me up as I pull in at 5:55, five minutes before closing.
It's always bittersweet when the stand closes, and the hand-painted wooden signs that display what is fresh are taken down for the winter. But it’s something to look forward to — those first trays of pansies that appear on the table out front in early spring.
- Howard Weiss-Tisman, reporter
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