Time changes perspective, from nuisance to hero
Twenty years ago, our family returned to New England from the Baltimore-Washington D.C. area, settling into a smallish suburban town in Worcester County. Determined to participate in local decisions, I began attending the Annual Town Meetings and any other special meetings that popped up, such as new school building proposals, new zoning issues, and Proposition 2 ½ overrides.
Growing up in a tiny town in central Maine, I remember my parents sometimes laughing and groaning about the “townies” who would turn the town meeting into a marathon of questioning every little item on the agenda, no matter how simple or seemingly insignificant.
As an adult, I experienced a similar situation at our Annual Town Meetings. A certain Mrs. Peabody could be expected to raise objections to dozens of budget issues, flagging each for discussion before allowing a full budget up or downvote. The moderator would read an item, and the collective crowd would hold their breath, waiting for Mrs. Peabody to stand up yet again and raise an objection.
I never knew Mrs. Peabody personally, but her demeanor at the meetings seemed like a marriage between school marm, financial savant, and conspiracy theorist. She had short silver hair and wore reading glasses with a beaded chain around her neck. She carried a clipboard, pen, pencil, and a calculator. Her uniform was that of a stereotypical Vermonter—fleece vest, turtleneck, corduroys, and hiking shoes. I imagined—though never verified—that she drove a Subaru.
Once all the line items were read, a discussion of each began. Mrs. Peabody would stand and ask questions with eyebrows raised and glasses at the tip of her nose, her probing eyes flitted from her clipboard to the selectmen on the stage, piercing into their very souls. I might have cowered under that stare. After a while, the crowd would become exasperated, groaning and mumbling that we should move on and vote. But Mrs. Peabody was steadfast, determined to analyze every penny of the Town Financials.
This happened every year until one year, Mrs. Peabody wasn’t there.
I don’t know what happened. I blame myself for not being a good community member and not going out of my way to meet more people. My only excuse, although not a good one, is that we were raising three young children, and school schedules, homework, and extracurriculars dominated my time. My social circle was small and didn’t encompass the retiree population.
But now, all these years later, as I read stories about the Massachusetts Legislature wheeling and dealing over the annual state budget, I think about Mrs. Peabody. I imagine even she would be overwhelmed by the number of line items and all they encompass. (In my more optimistic moments, I imagine her holding them to task, wrapping their communist knuckles with a ruler). But I suspect that is exactly the point. To make the process so complicated and gigantic that even the most determined Mrs. Peabodys of the world won’t bother to try.
So I guess the best thing everyone can do is to attend their Annual Town Meetings and pay attention. Channel your inner Mrs. Peabody. It’s one day of your life. But even if it doesn’t change a single decimal point or digit, it will at least slow down the process and make it more difficult for the “powers that be” in your town to simply ram their agendas through with a simple up or down vote.
These days, I wear those readers with the dangling chain. My hair is turning silver. I appreciate the warmth and comfort of fleece vests with turtlenecks. And although I live in downtown Boston now, I own a Subaru. If I could go back in time, I might stand with Mrs. Peabody and give her a round of applause.
We should all be Mrs. Peabody.
By JLK
Massachusetts First 
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