EAST MONTPELIER – In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, the schoolmarmish features of the newsies were on full display. Like old-fashioned country preachers predicting the apocalypse, they warned of unprecedented numbers of holiday travelers. It is, after all, the weekend of our greatest domestic migration, clogging the highways and the airports and making travel all but impossible, dangerous and certainly no fun.
It reminded me of the conspiracy theorists: if any of their predictions come true, they can nod wisely and remind us that they told us so. If they don’t, they count on us moving on to the next dire prediction. I rarely find them reliable.
Nevertheless, I faced the prospect of a trip to Massachusetts for the holiday weekend with some trepidation. My little black hybrid had all-wheel drive, a full tank, and a brand-new set of snow tires. Kiki’s food cooler was loaded. My pill organizer was organized, almost always a task beyond my abilities. I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Bea had promised three days of “whirlwind social activities,” which would be a break after the natural somnolence of life in central Vermont. So I’d packed one set of duds to wear for “company” occasions and another for every day.
We left home around one in the afternoon Wednesday. The GPS was adding 20 minutes to the usual travel time (not a good omen), which had us crossing the causeway to Bea’s island and pulling up beside the sea just about dark.
The interstate through Vermont and western New Hampshire was, in spite of the dire predictions, serene. The first check for crowding was our usual stop at McDonald’s in Warner. And sure enough, the drive-thru line stretched back into the road. Kiki wove through the crowd, peed and came back quickly (it was raining a bit). I went in, dreading the crowd. But they had activated a fireball employee I’d never seen before. She got me out of there in eight minutes flat with a cheerful holiday wish.
Traffic stayed reasonable all the way down I-93 and up I-95. In Lynn, everybody was going home from work, so that was a slow go. But we made it with daylight left.
The promised whirlwind began Thursday. Bea whacked away in the kitchen just like old times at Grandma’s. The guests were, of all people, the archivist of my old school in western Massachusetts (we met years ago after my fiftieth reunion. He’d managed to salvage my school records from a soaked, cold mess in the basement of the building where they’d fallen when the building burned), and his wife, who’s in what’s now called the Advancement Office (think money). The conversation was rewarding and fascinating; clearly, people we both want to see again when possible.
Friday, old friends came over from Cambridge (I’m always astounded how long people are willing to drive through Boston traffic to see each other. I guess that’s one reason there’s so much traffic). I was a little out of my class with three attorneys (one a novelist, as well) and a professor. But in anticipation of subjects that might arise, I prepared remarks to interject before the topic moved on. Again, a delightful time.
Saturday morning, as has become our wont, we went to the crafts fair at the Nahant town hall. It was jammed, and I don’t stand around quite as comfortably as I used to, so I went out to the back entrance, nicked half a Styrofoam cup of terrible coffee marked “For Vendors,” picked out a comfortable chair with arms, and chatted with passersby as they went in and out or came to the room to take a break, as I had.
After lunch, a nap, incredibly restful with the sea shimmering and the sound of waves outside the window. Just after dark, here we go again! Friends picked us up for another run through the Ted Tunnel and Boston to Belmont or Watertown. I never did find out which. I just watched the spider web of streets scroll across the GPS screen, for dinner with two more authors, one of them with half a dozen awards, including a Nobel Peace Prize. There were three cats in the apartment, so Kiki was in heaven, with her nose sniffing every corner, tail going like mad. Then it was back through the city again in the dark, reflecting how much the experience depends upon everyone else who shares your space.
Sunday morning, our usual breakfast at our usual comfort-food restaurant, a wistful good-by to Bea, and we turned our faces north again into thickening snow and home.
Willem Lange is a contractor, writer and storyteller who lives in East Montpelier, Vermont.
