Purdyville is way up in a lost corner of Vermont's NEK, way up, where they'll never have broadband-I don't care who the governor is, they'll never have broadband.
Purdyville people think the Internet is the mesh thing sewn into your swimmin' britches that keeps your stuff from dangling in the water when you're wadin' around the swimming hole on Memorial Day going "FWHEeeeee, FWHEeeeee, FWHEeeeee."
Purdyville is far up and out of the way; the American president wouldn't find it if Osama Bin Laden was standing naked in the middle of the town green peggin' lit fire crackers at frogs.
I guarantee, anyone you ask-be it an old life-long Vermonter, a flatlander genius, an over-the-road vacuum salesman, even a member of Vermont's 251 club-will not be able to direct you to Purdyville. No one knows where Purdyville is. Almost no one anyways cause, I do.
Why do I know where Purdyville is? Two words: good eats.
Purdyville gives the best early fall potluck dinner in the universe and solar system. I've been going for 17-skip one, then four more-years-straight. Twenty-one total years I been going to the Purdyville Pot luck and counting and I couldn't be more proud 'bout it.
Best baked beans in the world at the Purdyville Pot Luck cause they bake the beans that are shaped like miniature plump frank furts, that curl up on each side-the big beans, not them little dinky ones no bigger than a M&M. But, you'll be lucky to have any Purdyville Pot Luck dinner baked beans, cause you ain't going to find Purdyville, I'd bet.
At the Purdyville Pot Luck last Saturday, I see a guy eating alone. A small balled up gnomish guy, wearing worn rubber barn boots, thick green woolen pants, a quilt-lined shirt, and a filthy but supple deer skin vest. His bushy salt and pepper beard presented wonderfully as a work of sculpture; a woven extension of his stringy shoulder length hair that stung like a broom down from under the most beautiful fox hat you ever see.