So the road we live on is called "Dump Road." There, I've said it. As with any successful 12-step program, one of the early steps is acceptance. This acceptance has not come easily.
Had I known the name of the road before we bought the house, I likely would not have gone to look at it. Small of me, I know, but there it is. You see, in my "Vermont vacation house" fantasy, there was stationery. Beautiful stationery. Ecru, possibly, with our name and address tastefully engraved on the 100% cotton, archival quality, heavy linen card stock that is the purview of Manhattan stores with names like Smythson and Mrs. John L. Strong. There would be an illustration of some sort—a farmhouse, perhaps, or maybe a moose. Something representative of this new place we were calling home. Never once did my fantasy include an engraving of a steaming pile of refuse.
But once I discovered the name of the road, it was too late. I'd seen the house and was smitten. And as for the unfortunate name, well, it turns out there was a loophole. The previous owners had neatly sidestepped the issue by proclaiming the long driveway that led to the house a road in its own right. I don't know if the sign they erected at the entrance to the driveway was town-approved or not. It sure looked legitimate, and that was good enough for me.
Unfortunately and inconveniently, the name they chose was unique to them. But we could follow their lead and make a new sign, one better suited to us. We could call it Dumpling Road, maybe, or some French or Italian derivation of "dump." Décharge and discarica at least had a magical sound, if not a magical meaning.
My husband gave me odd looks when I started making noises about carrying out my plan. He is a practical man, and could not have cared less what the name of the road happened to be. This was about the house, after all, and the skiing and the mountains and the whole Sugarbush experience. The road could be named "You Paid Way Too Much for This House," for all he cared. For him, well-worn platitudes aside, it was about the destination, and who gave a toss about the names of the roads that led you to it?
Well, um. I did.
When friends asked where the house was, I'd say simply, "Sugarbush," or "Warren." If the inquirer happened to know the area, I'd do my best to hedge. "It's right off of Airport road," I'd say. And when they pressed further, I'd mumble "Dump Road" and try to move the conversation to another topic.
My friends back in Massachusetts think this is funny. Mind you, they all live on roads that give the impression that the fox hunt is going to come through at any minute—Field Point Road, Westminster Drive, Middlesex Circle. The names of their roads conjure up images of Barbour jackets and walking sticks. I feared that Dump Road brought to mind images of hip-high rubber waders and rabid mutts. I was sure Mrs. John L. Strong did not have the stationery to match.
A few more half-hearted attempts to sway my husband were met with silence and raised eyebrows. I can't blame the man. I knew I was being ridiculous. It was time to get over myself.
So I practiced. "Dump Road," I'd say out loud. And then, unconvinced, try again: "Oh, it's the sweetest little house, right off of Dump Road," and "We're so thrilled to have bought on Dump Road." It didn't come easily, but it did come. I can say it now with barely a cringe. And while part of me still has road sign envy, and I covet people's street names the way others covet the houses that sit on those streets, another part of me is perversely proud to say that we live on Dump Road. There is something to be said for setting people's expectations low, after all. The hope is that visitors will be pleasantly surprised when they turn onto the driveway and see that there is, indeed, a real house there. No dump in sight. No feral cats. No smells of suspicious origin. No engraved stationery either, alas. Just a welcoming home that I hope, in time, will come to be known by its reputation rather than by its location.