Last week, my mother moved to Brattleboro from Baltimore, MD, and, not unexpectedly, the three guys who moved her stuff up in the moving van were black. I lived in Baltimore for 20 years while Chris had been a DC resident for nearly a decade. Had we been in either city, the race of our movers would not have been an issue. But this was Brattleboro, VT. As soon as I saw them, I felt a twinge of anxiety — not for us but for them. I did not want their experience in Brattleboro to be a bad one.

So there we were, directing them down Linden Street to the Retreat Farm, the only place we could think of where they could turn around their 55 foot moving van. Kelly, the driver, maneuvered the truck around the barns while his two assistants stood out in the road directing him. To say that they looked out of place would have been an understatement.

Somehow, we got them and the tractor trailer down Oak Street where they had to park briefly while we figured out how to get the truck onto Chase. Again, I felt anxious. What would the neighbors think?

Needless to say, we did attract attention. My mother's new neighbors began to congregate, watching us and our exotic movers struggle with the dilemma of that tight turn. One couple was afraid we'd leave the truck in front of their house, disrupting their evening meal. Others offered helpful suggestions. In the end, Kelly managed the turn and the van was ensconced at my mother's house. It was too late to do any unloading so the plan was to leave it there for the night and unpack in the morning.

Meanwhile, the neighbors were understanding and nice, if a little surprised. One man wandered up to engage our movers in conversation. Two of them were from the Islands and they chatted with him about cricket and other island traditions. But despite the cautious welcome from the denizens of Oak and Chase, our movers had an idea they weren't in Kansas anymore.

They asked about motels, restaurants, and bars. We told them about the various options and suggested McNeill's as a laid-back place to get a drink. Kelly asked if we would be there. We hadn't planned to go out that night but realizing their situation, we said yes.

We got to the bar around 9 pm and Kelly, Peter and Victor were in the back, throwing darts and playing ring toss. Other patrons lined the bar or sat at various tables. The bartender had hip hop and jazz playing on the sound system and the atmosphere was relaxed, but it seemed clear that people were unsure of these new arrivals. We and our buddy Dora sat down with them at the back table, sipping our drinks and trying to think of a way to break the ice. But it seemed as though our mere presence was the ice breaker. People started to talk to them — giving them pointers on ring toss, trying to be friendly.

Out on the curb later, we talked about race in Brattleboro. Peter said, "When we walk down the street, everyone crosses to the other side." I said, "Well, you guys are black and this is a really white town." Peter said, "I know, I counted five black people the whole time we've been here." But he said, even the black people crossed the street! None of us could figure that out. Then a white guy who lives on Elliott came up to talk to us. He was enthusiastically friendly and told them that the minute he saw them, he knew they weren't from around here. Everyone laughed. Maybe that was the answer — they were black and they were strangers, and hence, immediately suspicious.

The next day, we asked them how they made out that night with sleeping arrangements. Peter said that in the end, they decided to spend the night in the truck rather than risk going to a hotel. "We figured we'd just get in trouble," he said. And that was when it really hit me that the small town New England experience is not the same for everyone. White travelers are expected and welcome. Black travelers in working clothes — not so much.

We got to know each other better over the shared task of getting my mother's endless store of boxes and furniture into her house. Victor told us about "Hurry Hurry Pot," an Island expression along the lines of the old adage, "A watched pot never boils." Peter told us his philosophy of work. "Make it fun and treat everyone's stuff as if it were your own. That way, it's a good experience for everyone," he said. We enjoyed their company and got along great, but all the same, it took me half the day to get Peter to stop calling me Miss Lise.

I had expected them to view us with some disdain for our differences but the movers were more curious than anything. Peter said our tap water was as good as Evian's and praised the clean air and starry skies. He said he looked forward to going out on the road because it gave him a chance to visit new locales. "You leave home and you find out there are places that are a lot better," he said. He told us that his neighborhood in Baltimore is dangerous and that he doesn't feel safe even on his own street. Kelly, the driver, was more pragmatic. "We're trying to figure out these little towns," he remarked. We knew what he meant.

Finally, after nearly twelve hours of hauling moving crates, the task was completed. Everything was off the truck and in the house. Our now-beloved moving team said good-bye. We got an email address so we could send them pictures and they took off down Forest Street in their giant truck, on their way to another northeastern town to pick up another family's possessions. We watched them go, wishing them the best.

I hope when they remember Brattleboro, they remember it as a little town that's trying. Meanwhile, I know we will always remember them, not only for their kindness and good humor, but for reminding us that when it comes to race relations in America, there's always room for improvement.