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Too big a subject for one blog post, but I’ll try. If this gets poetical, there’s a reason.

The home of my youth, Egypt in the mid-to-late ’70s, (alternate link: http://jldtifft.com/, click Galleries, click Search, enter “Egypt”) no longer exists. The generous and opening society, the cobwebby clutter of the Cairo Museum, the beautiful horses that were cheap to ride, the empty vastness of the Red Sea shores with the impossibly deep nighttime sky,

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Image from NASA/Hubble

even the occasional cockroach in the sodas… Shot down, cleaned up, built over. So it goes. One day, I might adjust to its absence.

I consider New England my home — one very special part, roughly between Mount Greylock and the Quabbin. When I had to move away, the first time, I remember feeling lightheaded as I drove across the border into New York, and spending the next hour counting and re-counting my limbs. I was sure one of them was missing. The feeling of dislocation, in its most essential sense, was that powerful.

When I moved back, coming the southern route, I remember my cat (originally a native of Egypt) waking from her long slumber as we drove through the last few miles of Connecticut and into southern Massachusetts. She had a lot to say about it, which amused the other drivers. When we got onto the Mohawk Trail and headed uphill into the Berkshires, her white fur glowed (I never found out how she did that) and she climbed up to the dash, where she could smell the air coming in through the vents. She inhaled it with complete attention, entranced, ecstatic.

I completely agreed.

To me, the endless green, the snuggling hills, the way the trees mingle with everything around them, the way the water bends and bounces over the sparkling stones, in that particular region, is the most beautiful on earth.

The airy, daffy grace of the black tailed deer, the sweetly sardonic canniness of the foxes, the fluffy explosiveness of the rabbits – not quite like anywhere else.

The white granite begot my bones. The ubiquitous brooks are the flow in my veins.

water_swimminghole-1
Image mine. Share-alike attribution license from Creative Commons.

The turning of the seasons could ignite poetry in the driest of souls: from the full-throated glorious summer, with birds shrieking their fool heads off and the hayfields looking like fat emerald velvet scattered with amethyst heads of clover; to the outrageous glorying riot of autumn; to those rare days in winter when the first light sets every tree, covered in a skin of ice, to blazing like fountains of diamonds; to that astonishing time when the air touches your mouth differently, you notice the first puddles of dirt showing through the snow, the very hint of a crocus nose pokes through, and winter isn’t over yet but the rise of spring pulls you up by the heartstrings.

A friend of mine sent me maple syrup she’d collected and boiled from her own trees.

maple_syrup_tap

Every now and then, I take one taste, and that’s all I need: I can smell it, hear it, feel it — if I close my eyes, I can see it too.

I love the un-fussiness of the people. Outsiders consider New Englanders reserved, but it’s more that they’re judicious. If it were obvious how utterly decent they are, nobody would ever leave them alone.

A visitor made this plain to me. A crusty old fart, whose family name was on half the landmarks in the area, had just plowed my driveway with heavy equipment. Knowing from my winter of splitting and hauling cordwood what it takes to do winter work, I invited him in for fresh-ground coffee. He hesitated until I said it was fresh-ground (I never drank much coffee, and it either had to be good coffee or a bitter day for me to enjoy it, so I made sure mine was good.) He came in, stamped the snow off his boots outside and inside, and shut the door as he unzipped his enormous down jacket, which was itself stiff with cold.

Underneath the crusty outer layer of jacket, the down was puffy and warm, opening out in billows behind the zipper. As the coat opened, so did his face. His voice warmed up and he reached gratefully for the coffee, alight with delight and fellow-feeling.

That’s New Englanders all over. Super crusty and maybe chilly on the outside; underneath, all soft, gentle, slightly fluffy, and ever so warm. Once a New Englander accepts you into the inner circle, you’re there for life.

It’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Years ago, the aggressively shortening days of winter made half the year pure hell for me. No amount of expensive lighting could compensate. With CRPS on top of that, the cold is unbearable and the extra work of winter is beyond me – and I used to love splitting wood, and even shoveling snow. It was the second-best way to get warm.

Snow_shovel
Image from Wikimedia Commons

I’m more or less trapped on the other side of the continent. I’ve given up on long trips until I’m strong enough to recover quickly; the current recovery time is 10 days, which doesn’t leave much time for visiting.

Nevertheless, and despite the fact that October’s shortening days are impossible there for me, there are times when I miss being home.

I’m thinking ahead to finding a place to settle. Where I am now is temporary, and for a very specific purpose (more on that later.) I’ve had a decade of transience, with much travel and frequent moves. I have other things to do, and I want a home to do them from.

I’ve had two excellent, intriguing, beautiful and fulfilling homes in my life. That makes me very lucky. Nevertheless, before too long, I’ll be looking for one more.

Johann_Georg_Grimm_1886,_Fazenda_em_Paraíba_do_Sul

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