Forgotten things

We've been "home" for two weeks now - at least I think we have. We're back in New Hampshire/Vermont - the Upper Valley of the Connecticut River where we own a 1796 post and beam moderately dilapidated house, but it is occupied by tenants at the moment, so we are not staying there. Just visiting for several weeks after a year in Malaysia, we have been, like Goldilocks, trying out one bed after another in the homes of our dear, long-suffering friends. I am frankly amazed at how many people we know who have offered to have the nine of us with our eighteen international-size sutcases invade their tidy homes and consume their foodstores like so many locusts. It is humbling and incredibly comforting.

Last night as we climbed into our rented vehicle after a campfire in friends' backyard/meadow our ten year old sighed happily and said, "I'd forgotten how nice it is to have friends." I had, too.

I had also almost forgotten how lovely it is to walk through northern forests, past small horse farms, under bright blue skies with just a hint of autumn in the cool air. I had nearly forgotten how it feels to drive almost unconsciously, traveling roads whose every curve and pothole I instinctively know. I had forgotten how soothing a good mug of coffee can be with just the right amount of cream, how relaxing it is to read the Sunday New York Times, how pleasantly exasperating it is to work the crossword with my friend who always knows all the answers but occasionally leaves an easy one for me.

I had also almost forgotten the feel of cold, wet sand underfoot on a North Atlantic beach, the chill of the wet fog, the speed and the silence with which it seeps in to envelop the beach. I'd forgotten how small the circle of visibility can become, or how disorienting it can feel to be caught in the mist. I'd forgotten how tiny the rooms under the eaves in an old, maritime house are, how soft and worn are the ancient pine floors in my parents' house.

I had nearly forgotten how it felt to have to close a window in the night because the night air is too chilly for the light summer blanket on the bed. I had almost forgotten globe thistle and black-eyed susans, pansies and hollyhocks, and how lovely it is to sit in the sun when the air is a comfortable temperature. I had forgotten the need to check the weather report when making plans and the smell of wet grass.

I had also forgotten how overweight many of us are, or how much stuff there is to acquire and how hard it is to keep it out of your shopping cart. I had forgotten how many clothes you need to own for the changing seasons, and how heavy and clunky fall and winter shoes look compared to flirty sandals and flip flops. I had actually forgotten how much gas costs, and how many cars even small families have in their driveways, how rare and expensive public transportation is and how few places of business are accessible without a car. I had forgotten how wide parking spaces are, and how large yards are, even in town.

I'd forgotten how many red heads live in New England, and how charming tanned, freckled faces can be. I had never noticed how wrinkled and leathery aging Caucasian skin looks, or how many women wear work boots or clogs. I had forgotten how comfortable it is not to feel like an oddity, but I never realized how dull it is never to see a face of a different color or shape - to see my own ethnic reflection in nearly every face that passes. I had forgotten how fast the internet is here, or how large a load the washing machines can handle.

I had forgotten that my dreams of home were just that, that you can never really come home again, at least not to the same home you left. I had forgotten that while so many things would be warm and inexpressibly comforting in their sameness, that I would never see them again through the same eyes I had last year. I had not realized that although my friends and I could pick up our conversation like we had never parted, there were some things I could never explain to them. I had forgotten that life deosn't work like science fiction - you can't travel for years and come back to the same moment in time that you left.