Vermont Writers' Prize - 2025 Winners

The Vermont Writers’ Prize is a collaboration between Green Mountain Power and Vermont Magazine. It was created in 1989 as a way to celebrate Vermont, writing, and to honor Ralph Nading Hill, Jr., a Vermont historian, author, and long-time GMP Board member. The contest is open to all Vermont residents, including seasonal and college students, and you can be a professional or amateur writer.

Finding Mr. Harrington

by Sarah Amatruto (Prose Winner)

When my boyfriend announced that he wanted to visit his great-grandfather’s grave, I had a good idea of what the day would look like: we’d stop and visit, then get coffee and a muffin. The chilly September morning started the way I had in mind. We pulled into the Shaftsbury Cemetery in our “best cooler weather clothes:” gloves and the type of jackets you’d wear to church, but not to stack wood. Henry carried an autumnal bouquet we’d purchased from a farm stand the day before in his left hand. I walked on his right and asked if he knew where we should start.

“No, not at all,” he replied, and we started walking. Forty-five minutes later, we’d gone through the entire cemetery together, and other than a section of Harringtons he claimed “weren’t related to him,” we’d found nothing. So, we split up and looked separately, unsuccessfully.

Later, I wrapped my fingers around a warm mug in the window seat of a cafe in Bennington while Henry texted. He looked up, bewildered.

“My mom doesn’t know where he’s buried either!” he exclaimed. “She said her parents would know, of course, but since they both passed…” he shook his head. “I know there’s at least one box of papers and photos we haven’t gone through yet.”

“Do you know if they’re in this county?” I asked “Or if he would be buried in a Military Cemetery? I know there’s that one up in Randolph, or maybe he ended up in Saratoga.”

Henry looked at me over his muffin. “It would take a lot more than death to get my woodchuck family to leave Vermont, Ellie.”

Being a “flatlander transplant” myself, I’d never quite understood why someone would be so attached to one space. Then again, my family had come through Ellis Island three generations ago and each generation had moved around the country since. Perhaps we just had location commitment issues, or maybe we just hadn’t found “home” yet. I certainly doubted I’d still be in Vermont if I hadn’t fallen for a boy in tenth grade math ten years ago. 

I focused back on the topic at hand as Henry mused, “How many cemeteries could there be in this county anyway?”

It turns out, there were many, and so began a week of research. After work we’d tear apart his mother’s closet, looking for clues amongst her parents’ things. We went to the library for help, and received the phone number for “Jeffrey from the Historical Society.” Jeffrey was utterly delighted by our dilemma; it seemed like he’d been waiting his whole life for a young couple to misplace a great-grandfather. We learned a lot: The term “graveyard” is exclusive to plots adjacent to churches – literally “a yard of graves.” (“Though, if you’re asking me, a big part of why people prefer the word cemetery is because they don’t like the word ‘graves.’” Jeffrey said). We discovered that Private Cemeteries are privately owned, but if a single “non family member” got buried there the cemetery would be considered Public; the status being determined by inhabitants rather than funding. We’d realized death had “trends”: the types of markers and what happened to bodies (cremation versus burial) went in and out of style. All of it was interesting, but research alone wasn’t going to find Mr. Harrington. “I think there’s only one thing left to do,” I said to Henry as we poured over maps. “Where do you want to start?”

The following day we embarked on a one-mile hike uphill, across a river, and off trail to a dilapidated gate. We had to brush aside leaves to read the markers, which were fortunately legible. This resting place was home to two dogs and about fifty people. It didn’t take long to gather that Mr. Harrington wasn’t there, but before we left we took our time reading the stones. Some simply had names and dates, but others had a passage from a book, and others had life stories. One, by a particularly large tree, shared the story of Cynthia Smith (1905-1965), who lived much of her adult life with the company of her dear friend, Margaret, who was buried on the other side of the tree. Henry and I looked at each other.

“What a delightful friendship,” I commented.

“What a delightful place to spend eternity,” he replied.

He was right. While I could never understand how hard it must be to hide one’s love, I did know that being fortunate enough to spend life with the one you love is a beautiful thing. And, while I hadn’t thought about it before, maybe finding a home to share with that person in death is a beautiful thing too.

Our second stop was a conventional cemetery in Bennington. The markers were beautiful–by looking closely, I could tell that some were from Rock of Ages quarry in Barre. This cemetery had Cremains Walls, which reminded me a bit of Post Office Boxes, though I kept that thought to myself as Henry scanned the names on the closest wall for his Great-Grandfather’s name. We didn’t really think he’d be there – everyone else in Henry’s family had been buried. As we drove through and hopped out to look closer at names at burial sites, it seemed less and less likely that we would find Mr. Harrington, but we did notice many Wilsons.

“Do you think they’re all related?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I come from a big crew, but this puts my family to shame.”

Our question was answered when we wandered back towards the treeline. William Wilson, buried next to his wife, Martha, had a segment of Genesis 15:5 on his stone: “Look to the Stars - so shall your offspring be.”

“Do you reckon they all got along?” Henry asked. Then he continued, “Regardless, if my family had just picked a plot we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Maybe everyone has to find where they feel most at home,” I replied. “A place to spend forever is a big decision.” But how convenient to be surrounded by loved ones in death, I thought.

While we’d failed to find Mr. Harrington, as I fell asleep that night thinking about Cynthia Smith and the Wilson family, the day didn’t feel like a loss.

The weeks that passed were filled with many losses, but it never felt that way to us. We were more familiar with our county than we’d ever been before and found hundreds of intriguing stories. Each weekend we’d set alarms and go to whatever was next on the list, walking through arched gates some days and finding markings on regular boulders other days.

As time went on we started crunching through snow as we read tombstones, and one Sunday, after a bone-chilling day in three separate cemeteries, Henry said,

“We only have five cemeteries left. He’s either in those, or we’re just not meant to find him.”

So, we made a plan to visit two spots the following Saturday, and three the final Sunday.

Technically, our journey ended at 9am on Saturday, when we strolled through asymmetrical rows of a small cemetery with no parking area, but surprisingly well maintained plots. We found Mr. Harrington together, in the center of the left half of the cemetery, marked by a simple half round top marker. I walked away to give Henry space, and as he spoke aloud I got lost in my own thoughts. Silently, I thanked Mr. Harrington for sending us on this journey. I looked around at his beautiful final resting place and wondered why he’d chosen it. But, as Henry walked back towards me I thought that sometimes you don’t pick your home, it finds you instead.

The following day, we visited the four remaining cemeteries anyway.

Months after finding Mr. Harrington, I woke up on a chilly September morning to the smell of coffee and warm muffins. I pulled on my robe and walked into the kitchen as Henry filled thermoses.

“I was thinking we could spend some time outside before the snow comes,” he said.

I quickly got ready in my “nicest cooler weather clothes,” only this time, I pulled my gloves over my new engagement ring. He handed me the keys, so I drove up dirt roads that would be all but impassable in the winter, until we pulled over by a small cemetery deep in the woods in Shaftsbury and climbed to the top of the hill, overlooking the tombstones as the sun glinted through the pine trees and reflected on the frosted grass. We sipped our coffees for a while, and then I surprised myself by breaking the silence.

“What do you think?” I asked, gesturing to the beauty around us “One day, way in the future, do you think this could be home?”

He looked surprised and looked around, then he smiled. “Way in the future,” he said, “many, many decades from now… I think I’d like that.” 

Sarah Amatruto’s family moved from New Jersey to Vermont when she was four years old, where she attended preschool thru 12th grade in Manchester. She spent many beautiful days exploring Mount Equinox, the Long Trail, the Green Mountain National Forest, and local cemeteries with her family and childhood dog, and spent many snowy days curled up with a book - sometimes in the fantastic Manchester Library. She attended college in Buffalo, NY, across the street from the gigantic Forest Lawn Cemetery which she would frequently visit. Upon obtaining her Bachelor’s Degree, she worked in the western US before the COVID-19 pandemic brought her back to Vermont. She lived in Bennington with her partner where they had many misadventures, some of which inspired “Finding Mr. Harrington.” They later relocated to beautiful Bradford, VT, before ultimately settling in Randolph Center, between two lovely cemeteries. “Finding Mr. Harrington” is her first professional publication.

SOWING SEASON

by Devon Bedor (Poetry Winner)

I don’t want a lawn.

I want a yard of lupins. 

So I can cut paths through them,

And still get lost in this little town. 

I want a bank of creeping phlox.

So I can walk up their pillow tops in bare feet, 

And look down onto my sea of color. 

I want the chickens to follow me up.

I want my lover to be waiting up there for me,

With a blanket and a bottle of wine. 

I want weekends off. 

So I can be a cliche,

And have time to stop and smell the flowers.

I want all this,

But I still have four hours left on this shift, 

At this second job. 

Tomorrow will be my first day off in two weeks, 

And I’m thinking…

I’ll plant some seeds.

Devon Bedor is a 5th generation Vermonter. He got into manufacturing after high school, and worked up the ranks to become a Process Engineer. When he’s not working his multiple jobs, or running his own business, he enjoys keeping busy with his many hobbies and family traditions. Such as homesteading, sugaring, haying, raising beef, hunting, trapping, gardening, tinkering in the garage, and writing. A jack of all trades, he’s always eager to learn something new, and seeing where it takes him.