Hazel Tov
The new year roared in on wind. I woke to it in the night, and again in the dark morning. The wind bowed the big, west facing window so that the reflections danced on it. When it was light enough I could see the wind tearing at shingles over the garage (where we had just had missing shingles replaced). There will be more work for the roofers, and probably an accelerated timetable for a metal roof. The wind pushed and pushed against the west facing walls and windows, accompanying itself with a sound like no musical instrument, closer to the sound of thunder than anything I can think of. I could imagine the house lifting off, like the farmhouse in the Wizard of Oz, or being pushed down the hill to the east into the little valley that holds the boundary between our hill and the rise of Lucia’s property up to Scotch Hill Road. The dried golden rod whips in the wind mirroring the treetops. Everything that can move does. It’s warm this morning, up in the 40s, but predicted to fall to the teens in less than 24 hours. We’ll have wind all day.
It was calm yesterday when I marked the last day of 2018 walking the loop from Gulf Road to Scotch Hill to Manley Road and back to Gulf. Except for our driveway and a stretch of Gulf, the roads were clear and dry, and the walking easy and pleasant. Where the road is icy, I have to stop walking if I want to look at anything but my feet and the surface right in front of me where my next step will fall. I can’t look around, but I can listen to the sound of my own breath, the crunch of my boot in snow, the tap of my walking stick, the click of dry branches shifting in what was then only a light breeze. But on the dry, clear roads I can enjoy the sights around me, close in and in the long distances. I’ve walked this loop often enough that every tree and driveway and house is familiar. I know where our house will disappear from my view, and where it will be visible again. I remember the sense of revelation the first time I walked the loop and saw Sunnyhill from different vantage points, how far it looked from the top of Scotch Hill, how close it looked as I passed Lucia’s, and the last, surprising glimpse of it as I turned onto Manley.
Seven cars passed me in an hour and a half of walking. A few dogs barked. Crows took a look at me, and a bluejay scolded me from a tree on Manley before flying off into the woods. I didn’t see or hear the pair of chickadees I had seen the other day. But there were a few cows and a horse in the pasture at Potter’s farm, and Richard Manley’s sheep were out grazing in their shaggy, muddy winter coats. In the spring, Jackie Manley will shear them, clean the filthy wool, and spin it into yarn she weaves in her tiny studio. Richard was out front chopping wood, and we gave each other a happy new year, the only voice I heard on the walk.
What a year I ended with that walk! We drove out here last January, unsure of what would come next, how we would adjust to winter and country life, how we would feel about being so far from family and friends. And now we know. Winter is full of delights, and the challenges are only that. I remembered, and Jay learned, how to watch each step on icy ground. We learned how to dress, and we added our lovely pellet stove for a much nicer source of heat than the noisy forced air propane heater. We added the tankless water heater to save on propane and make long, hot showers guilt free. We found our way to the little synagogue in Oneonta, making friends there and in Cooperstown, especially after Peter and Aviva came back from Panama last spring and started introducing us to their lovely friends.
It’s a joy to be close to my sisters, but we do miss our kids and grandkids. Visits help, and I’ve started writing to the three youngest every week. It’s a lovely ritual, printing each letter slowly and carefully, thinking about which stories or ideas each of them will enjoy. And before we know it, they’ll be old enough to come out on their own. I love the thought of giving them country summers. It won’t be Amenia, but they’ll have a stream to play in and a grassy hill to roll down and a big sky to look up at and days without clocks or TV.
The long days of summer are far off in the future. We drove into Hartwick to have New Year’s lunch with Silvio. Mary and John came in, and we chatted back and forth across the otherwise empty restaurant. We know Mary from the aqua fitness class, and we’ve met John at the Hartwick before. They’re both lifelong residents, Mary from Hartwick, and John from just down the road in Laurens (where we bought our small apartment house). They have the blue farmhouse, built in the 19th century, on route 11 just outside the center of Hartwick on the way to 28 and Cooperstown. John has a collection of old cars out front, some classics, some just old. Silvio served us huge ham steaks, and the halves we each brought home will be lunch again tomorrow.
We came home to Charlie and his new playmate, Hazel Tov, the nine week old kitten we brought home from the SPCA last week. She has already changed the house, playing tag with Charlie, batting at him from behind the pellet stove, chasing the red dot of the laser pointer across the floor and up her scratching post, and having a nap attack sitting behind Jay’s neck. She came to us as Hazel, but became Hazel Tov before we were out of the SPCA parking lot. She’s a mischievous little presence, knocking over whatever she can, leaping at stray wood pellets, and sending papers flying. But right now, she and Charlie are napping on the couch with Jay in front of the fire.
The wind has died down. There’s a little snow. The laundry is nearly done.
This is home.
