Summary

A man named Harry Dickens' grandson, a Philadelphia resident, discusses his experience with Vermont's "Listener Tax Complaint Program," where he was assigned a listener to hear his complaint about taxes on his inherited cottage, only to find the listener was an old man who knew his grandfather and did not offer any resolution.

Abstract

The author, the grandson of Harry Dickens, recounts his participation in Vermont's "Listener Tax Complaint Program," designed to address grievances from out-of-state property owners about local taxation. Despite preparing a detailed argument for lower taxes on his family's rustic lakeside cottage, the author's encounter with his assigned listener, an elderly man, yields no change in his tax bill. The listener, who appears to be over 100 years old, remains silent throughout the author's complaint, only to reveal a personal connection to the author's family through his knowledge of Harry Dickens, a well-known state policeman and representative. The article highlights the unique approach Vermont takes in managing the discontent of non-native taxpayers and reflects on the effectiveness of such a program.

Opinions

The author seems to have a mixed sentiment about the "Listener Tax Complaint Program," appreciating the opportunity to voice concerns but ultimately finding the process ineffective.
There is a hint of nostalgia and respect for the listener's age and the connection to the author's grandfather, Harry Dickens.
The author implies a sense of humor about the situation, particularly in the listener's old age and the lack of any tangible outcome from the complaint.
The author may feel a sense of futility in the program, as despite his well-prepared argument and the listener's personal connection, there was no change in his tax situation.
There is an underlying tone of admiration for Vermont's natural beauty and ecological integrity, which seems to justify the higher taxes for out-of-staters to some extent.

The Importance Of Being Listened To

At 11:00 AM I was let into the room where my listener was waiting… He said nothing. He apparently took his job literally.

I’ve been blessed by inheriting a cottage on, what is considered by some, the most beautiful lake in the world — Willoughby Lake, Vermont ( Google it). My grandfather, Harry Dickens built the cottage in 1935. He was a well known state policeman for many years and 7 term state representative. The cabin is bare bones but it’s location makes up for any shortcomings it has in terms of accoutrements. Basic stove and fridge in the kitchen, tub, and flush toilet in the bathroom (water saver toilet by virtue of it missing every other flush for some reason).

Turns out that Vermont has done a fairly good job in keeping its ecological integrity; Green Mountains, clear lakes, air quality almost pure oxygen and animals running all over the place. Where they fund these quality of life essentials is by — taxing out-of-staters, like me (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,USA). Native Vermonters get a break. No laws for it or against it. It just is.

Because 90% of Vermont is owned by out-of-staters there’s, naturally, a modicum of discontent every year the tax bills come out.

Because Vermonters are, by nature, a clever lot, they’ve come out recently with a program called The Listener Tax Complaint Program.

Yup, it’s exactly what it sounds like. If you have a tax complaint, there is someone who will listen. Just make an appointment at your local town hall and you’ll be assigned a Listener to hear your complaint.

I did and I was.

I arrived in town hall at 10:45AM for my 11:00AM (if I’m not 15 minutes early for an appointment, I’m late).

At 11:00 I was let into the room where my Listener was waiting. I know I’m up there in age but this guy must have been over 100. He said — nothing. He took his job description literally.

He did nod his head which I took as a sign to start my complaint. I laid out my case for the lowering of my taxes on my summer cottage. I droned on and on. He sat there and said — nothing.

Finally I finished my spiel.

Still nothing.

Finally:

“Is your mother, Doris Dickens?” the Listener asked in a sort of croaky, voice that you might imagine a man approaching 100 years might have.

“She is or was; she passed away 15 years ago,” I said.

“The daughter of Harry Dickens?” he inquired.

Yea.

“You know what my mother would say if I got in trouble when I was around 9 years old,” he went on to ask.

No, what?

Harry Dickens is gonna get ya!

Great! No, not really great.

I quietly got up and walked out of the office.

A few weeks later, I got my new tax bill after my hour long, well prepared, laboriously presented formal complaint to the Listener.

No change.