Wonderful Tunbridge

June 25, 2015

My last morning in Tunbridge. It is such a charming place, Vermont. It gets under your skin. It’s odd how places can become that thing you have been missing and not even recognizing you are. There are a few cities and outlying areas I don’t believe I would care to live in, but there is so much appeal statewide. The slower pace of life – one is forced to slow down. Nothing is really in a hurry; time lines become blurred somehow. And yet there is a vibrancy here, too, of lives being truly lived with just enough. The edges of my days are soft and comforting. I know this past week has brought me more pure relaxation than I have felt in many, many years. The happiness inside me fills my stomach with a warmth that just wants to spill outside of me.

It’s hard to not mention the weather. I’ve lived in Florida longer now than I really ever thought I would. As a child I never desired to live there – life just took me that way, and circumstance has kept me there. I can feel in my heart that the time for change is coming, but just not now. Just now I am relishing being north again – my heart and soul are truly northern; I recognize this every time I head this way. Today’s porch morning is a cool 55°. The humidity is high – 90% but it is harder for me to be uncomfortable when the air is so fresh and clean. The sky is blue and cloudless. Right now there is no breeze; the flag hangs limp, quietly waiting for the next breeze to stir it into action.

My brother and sister-in-law live in a 180-year old farm house. It’s in the middle of the little sleepy town of Tunbridge around 45 minutes from Montpelier, the state capital, and roughly 20 miles from the New Hampshire border and Dartmouth. They live on Highway 110, and traffic is steady past their house, yet not brutal. All in all there are around 35 houses in this charming little place. The side yard once was the village green, but the man who lived in this house at the turn of the 20^th century bought the land and incorporated it into the 2 acres the house is situated on. The post office is literally next door – adjoined through the village green. The public library is directly across the street from that, and next to that is a brick building which used to be a creamery. It has this fabulous old, rusty fire whistle on the equally oxidized old tin roof. Two doors down in the other direction is the local country store, which stocks funky little items intermixed with a few absolute basic necessities. Directly across the street from the house is a guard rail which, if one steps over, leads down a steep bank to a branch of the White River. The sound of the river creates a white noise background (in between the cars rushing by) and the trill of birds in all the surrounding trees is so sweet. It’s a peaceful, joyful retreat for me.

A 180-year-old house has some eccentricities and quirks, and requires a lot of maintenance. In this regard it must be a completely overwhelming prospect to both Bobby and Betsy. The plumbing is old and outdated – last done in the 1960s, but all is totally functional.  The house smells wonderfully of dusty, clean old wood, the floors creak, doors have difficulty staying shut. The screen door gives a satisfying creaky groan as it opens and closes with a satisfying “thwack”– a sound that makes me smile each time I hear it. They are long time antique collectors, and their treasures can be found in every crack and crevice imaginable – it is like a treasure trove – every time I turn around I see something new, but old, and wonderful. There are five bedrooms; one room is blocked off, and that in itself is so intriguing! There is a back staircase that leads from the pantry off the kitchen up to this closed off room. The door to that room links through Bobby and Betsy’s room, and on through to the front bedroom closet. It’s very unique and delightful to me. I find myself lost in thought throughout the day – imagining the lives lived here in this house, and all that the house has seen. It’s almost cliché to say “if these walls could talk”, but I cannot help think it! The changes it has been through – the seasons of change weathered on all levels.

Living in Florida I experience lots of blooming things – tropical, sub-tropical lushness. Here in the northeast, the growing season is fast and furious. Vegetables grow quicker and larger; I am convinced the cooler nights and rich soil have so much to do with it. The crops all around are planted, but not a whole lot is flourishing just yet. The corn is still small – the tallest stalks I’ve seen are still not knee-high for me. I am experiencing this wonderful feeling of freshness, of seasons, of time passing. It seems to me that living in Florida somehow dulls all that –time slows, somehow, even though the pace of life is much faster. I feel like I have somehow stepped into a different skin. I know my thoughts are different, that my feelings are not so close to the surface, and that I am just watching the days right now with an eye that is just absorbing it all. I feel almost like I am observing, making mental notes and storing all this loveliness to take out for later days. It’s an odd, disjointed feeling, but I am feeling grateful for it just the same. I know in a few weeks when I go back my life will be there waiting, but I am thoroughly enjoying this respite.