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Reflections of a Justice of the Peace
Reflections of a Justice of the Peace
by Heather McKeown
“I lay my heart at your feet – an open book of promises ...” is just one sentiment from one set of vows I’ve heard since July 1, 2002.
The planning of a nuptial ceremony usually begins with a call from The Phineas Swann Bed and Breakfast in Montgomery Center. Michael and Glenn, the owners, always say the same thing: “Heather, you’re going to get a call from a wonderful couple.” And the calls do come in. From Georgia, Mississippi, Illinois, New York, Oklahoma, Florida, California, Minnesota, New Jersey, Oregon, Virginia, Wisconsin, Nebraska, Massachusetts, Texas and Pennsylvania.
From the initial phone contact, I suggest an e-mail exchange of information. What does the couple want? What religion, theme, location, floral arrangements, cake, wine, indoor, outdoor, reception, guest list, music, atmosphere, vows, rings, photographer and whatever else comes into play. Michael, Glenn and I make it special for all.
Forty times I’ve received this call since July 1, 2000, and I responded as part of a team of Franklin County hosts and business people do – with an all out (pun intended), gangbuster service that the uniting couples will forever associate with warmth, respect, humor and reverence. In short, Vermont becomes a part of their vocabulary, forever falling on the positive side of their collective memory’s ledger.
Standing up to my knees in a river or basking in the warmth of my own woodstove, a civil union is always according to the couple’s taste. When an opera singer bursts into a Puccini aria in the middle of the service, I wonder at my own luck. Standing before a crowd of forty individuals from all over the world while a couple exchanges vows at the foot of a mountain has me counting my blessings.
I live in East Berkshire, Vermont. In the past two years my interaction with folks from 'away’ has multiplied beyond belief thanks to this great state’s open-minded and forward-thinking Civil Unions law. My friends from Manhattan, Boston, Montreal, Toronto and Philadelphia were aghast when I entrenched myself in a less-than-urban existence. “Heather, you’re dying on the vine!” they’d say. Of course, I adore my rural life and find it much more stimulating than being stuck in traffic on the way to somewhere, but I must say that having socially uplifting encounters with those who form life partnerships here has been a boon to my social and political life.
I’ve learned so much about what goes into making a day special for those who sometimes arrive without the support of their families. Because of politics, religion or just plain lack of funds, couples sometimes have no one to witness their wedding. It falls to the Phineas Swann, local restaurants and me to give these neophyte civilly united people a good time and support. It’s bad enough that gay and lesbian lovers can’t marry in their home states, but sadder still when they must remain closeted upon their return home. To say I’m proud of Vermont is an understatement. Conversely, I’m ashamed of the harshness imposed on our fellow human beings elsewhere. The universal energy that binds us all makes allowances for many to pass into some other dimension that doesn’t practice acceptance. We’re evolving at different rates, I guess.
Being at the right place at the right time is the story of my life. My friends are incorrect in their assumption that living on route 105 between Richford and Enosburg isn’t stimulating. I’ve never been more engaged in the process of life than right here, right now. Meeting all the couples. Discussing how the rest of America feels about being gay, transgender, bisexual, a daughter of Sappho, or whatever makes a good relationship become one partnered for life has broadened my horizons beyond belief. The country comes to me, a simple justice of the peace here in rural Vermont. How cool is that?
When I intone, "By the power vested in me by this beautiful, wonderful, open-minded state of Vermont... I now pronounce you Civilly United!" I do so with a pride and a strength of purpose for which I’m humbly grateful.
Heather McKeown is the editor of The Optimist (a monthly / weekly written by Franklin County students), a massage therapist and mediator. She identifies as an ally; she and her husband live in East Berkshire.