Here, there, and everywhere
“Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You’ll find what you need to furnish it – memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That it will go with you wherever you journey.” —Tad Williams
We were graced with visitors since last June, five months of family and friends coming and going to our place in Vermont. I was so busy, so occupied entertaining and cooking and venturing to various places, I didn’t really have time to think about what it’s like being here without the happy distraction of guests.
Now I do, and it’s not always easy, especially as the days grow shorter and colder, and both animals and humans start hunkering indoors. Even most of the birds have left, so it’s quiet here. Very quiet.
The light begins to fade by 4:00 p.m., so we’re headed into the “inward” season. It’s a good time to sit around the fire, read a book, sip hot tea, write, contemplate, and bring out my HappyLight®.
This past month was filled with travels to see friends and family—first California, then Colorado, and a few weeks later to Ohio for Thanksgiving. After being nourished with love and warmth, the comfort of familiar faces and places, re-entry here was especially challenging.
All these comings and goings have brought to mind what home really means. Here in Vermont are David and Izzie. We have a dwelling to call our own, material comfort, a lifetime of belongings. In the Bay Area we have emotional comfort, a sense of belonging, a lifetime of memories. I’m doing my best to believe there is a reason, a purpose for this radical move. At the very least, there are plenty of learning opportunities.
The morning after I returned from Colorado, I went to get a few things from the food co-op. Here’s how my conversation went with the check-out clerk:
Cashier: “It’s senior discount day! I’m not sure if you qualify, but…”
Me (blanching): “Oh wow (thinking, oh wow, I can’t believe you just asked me that…). What age is it for?”
Cashier: It’s for 65 and older.
Yikes.
I have avoided that cashier’s line ever since.
“There’s a special place in hell for cashiers who ask women of a certain age if they’d like a senior discount,” said my friend Leslie, whom I’ve known since we were in our twenties.
So far, strangers have mistaken me for a badass bitch and someone nearing 70 (for the record, I just turned 58). Not exactly an appealing reflection pool.
The day after my old geezer incident I went to deliver a bucket of gourds to friends at Goat Ridge farm. Bernie (my all-time-favorite steer) tried to chomp on one of the gourds, but couldn’t quite open it with his lack of teeth, so he kindly returned it, shined and slimed.
The goats were more interested in escaping than gnawing on a bunch of rock-hard ornamental squash. We managed to lure them back with the apples we’d been feeding Maple the pig (she’s the one who smells just like maple syrup). I was so focused on getting the herd of goats back inside that I nearly lost my boot, which was stuck in the muck.
Had I brought Izzie, she’d likely be as brown as my boots were. In the past few weeks she’s been shedding like never seen before. Perhaps it’s a sign it’ll be a warmer winter? A colder one? For the first time ever, my Golden Retriever (aka English Shedder) will be wearing her very own winter coat.
When Aidan left for Paris this fall, I started writing him letters. I don’t know what inspired it, perhaps because I missed him while also knowing I needed to give him space. (Not that it’s stopped me from communicating via WhatsApp.)
After finishing my most recent letter to Aidan, I decided to include a sampling of freshly fallen Izzie fur (in case he was missing her, but mostly as a joke). I stopped at the post office to see how much more postage I would need for the added padding.
“You’ll have to fill out a customs form,” said the postal worker.
I confessed I was sending my son dog fur. She gave me a blank stare and pointed to the letter slot. The envelope was too thick to squeeze through it.
“I’ll just send the letter without the fur,” I said and brought it back home to repackage. I’m sure they thought I was completely off my rocker.
We plan to visit Aidan in France in a few weeks and started to take conversational French lessons, which has been wonderful (though slightly embarrassing, given how much I’ve forgotten since studying it in high school). The teacher has been very patient, no matter how mauvais my French is, and our fellow students have been tolerant and good-humored too.
I recently had a dream where someone was speaking French to me and I was hesitant to answer back because of my poor command of the language. However, it was my dream, right? I had to create the person who was speaking French to me. The lesson? We know more than we realize. If only I’d remember how to conjugate plus-que-parfait when I’m awake.
David just went skiing for the first time this year. Not ideal conditions as yet, but the fact that he can ski less than an hour away remains a huge benefit of living here for him. I asked David what he loved most about skiing. He smiled and slowly flapped his arms, i.e., it feels like flying. Don’t we all want to fly?
Our stove wasn’t working on David’s birthday, so instead of cooking we went to a restaurant called Wit & Grit. We’d never eaten there before, but the menu was enticing. For breakfast you can order “burrito got back,” “mind your biscuits and life will be gravy,” or “don’t count your eggs before they hash,” among other offerings. Lunch includes the “ruth bader gins-burger.” Plus, they brought David fresh, warm donuts to celebrate. Wit, grit and donit. Mmm.
I just finished reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, and even though it’s set in Tennessee, the last part of the book reminded me of the rural culture here:
He said up home we are land economy people, and city is money economy…there’s a hundred other things you do for getting by, especially older people and farmers with the crops, tomato gardens and such. Hunting and fishing, plus all the woman things, making quilts and clothes. Whether big or small, you’ve always got the place you’re living on…
True, we’re not in Appalachia, but I’ve gotten a glimpse of the beauty of small, rural villages. People grow, hunt, harvest, forage their own food, then freeze and can for the winter. Yes, there are grocery stores here, but there is also the luxury of fertile land, and residents take pride in being self-sufficient, regardless of age.
This morning our 74-year-old neighbor Brenda drove down on her ATV to plow the area around our mailbox.
“They won’t deliver if it’s blocked,” she said.
She didn’t ask for payment, reciprocation of any kind, or even acknowledgement. She simply did it because she thought it needed to be done. (I ran out and gave her a hug. And later, a hunk of lasagna.)
I’ve never even met our next-door neighbor, who’s rather reclusive, and there are some dubious folks living around and about, so it’s not like everyone around here is like Brenda. No one holds a candle to her in terms of help and care, time and teaching. But in general, neighbors are willing to help one another, and it’s an inspiring way to live.
Some random acts of kindness:
The UPS driver always ready to give Izzie a biscuit (same goes for the general store, First Branch café…).
The Vermont Law School registrar gifting David a partner membership card to the gym (now open to locals) when we went to the office to pay for it.
Our postal delivery person, Jane, knocking on our door to make sure we didn’t accidentally receive a neighbor’s parcel, then offering to take one of ours to the post office (she spotted the box on our dining table).
Our realtor Zoe, who has warmly welcomed Izzie to her family when we’re away, sending us a photo of the bone-shaped stocking she bought (and personalized!) for our pup so she’ll have her very own stash o’ goodies for Christmas.
Last but not least…
We’ve learned that nearby Strafford, the home town of singer-songwriter Noah Kahan, is getting its moment in the spotlight: “[Kahan] turned Strafford into his version of Steinbeck’s Salinas Valley.”
I happened upon a Stick Season candle inspired by Kahan’s hit song at a store in Woodstock. It’s selling for a whopping $45. But hey, it smells like Vermont pine, campfire whiskey and your favorite flannel and comes in a reusable cocktail glass. What more could you want? If you’re looking for a sprinkling of dog fur for added warmth, we’ll be happy to provide that free of charge.
Wishing you all a joyous season.
As always, thanks for reading.
Elisse
I so enjoy this blog, dear Elisse, because of your gift of story-telling and your exquisite photos. It also moves me because it is a genuine reflection of you, what makes you happy as well as sad. And while your heart remains back here in the West, I so admire and enjoy reading about all the ways you have immersed yourself in Vermont life. And I envy you having a neighbor like Brenda. She is a gem. Love you!!
Bravo! Thank you for sharing your whirwind. Should we have a t-shirt made that reads, 'Np, I don't want the senior discount."