The familiar sites of Brunswick greet me as Ben Semmes, Laura and I pull into a parking spot downtown. We cross the street, Ben asks if we think it’s ok to use Tararra Deane-Krantz’s account, Laura laughs and shakes her head.
“You know I never paid J-Chan back,” I say remorsefully.
“When I paid him, Ben says ‘he told me he knew I’d be the only one, but that was okay.”
Classic J-Chan. As we head into Gelato Fiasco, we’re greeted by the Marjo’s sister’s art work, and the familiar smells of good coffee and smooth, creamy gelato.
We each decide to get the same three flavors in a small dish; vanilla bourbon (for you Ben, Abby and Katie, and sort of Aidan), espresso chip (for all you coffee-loving New-Yorkers, + Lee), and nocciola, the classic gelato flavor (for Adam, the I-talian). We sit and zealously scoop the pilled-high trifecta of brilliance with little red shovels into our mouth. After scraping the little clear dishes clean, we head back to Ben’s car.
Driving down route one, as we pass each familiar sight my stomach churns with anticipation, the roadhouse, the shelter institute, finally norms and the turn. With each curve on chewonki neck road, we’re brought closer, and our excitement grows. Finally we reach the sign, and hop out for a picture, only to realize we’ve left our cameras at home, but we taken pictures with Ben’s cell anyway.
At last, as we pull into the empty pack-out lot, we’re home.
Campus is snow laden, beautiful, and lifeless. The place is utterly empty, barely a single foot print in the two feet of snow, more ski tracks then prints. We hurry excitedly down the road to spruce lodge, not hearing a sound, and head to its door. After a knock and a moments pause, we’re greeted by a hugely bearded Peter Sniffen, garbed in red ants pants and the dirty white hoody he always wears, smelling of chainsaw bar-oil, and with a smile that lit up the room. After exchanging hugs we head to his kitchen where he puts on a kettle and brings out his selection of about a dozen loose leaf teas, each in there own different jar, labeled in neat Sniffen hand writing. We sit, drink, talk, and laugh. The happiest I’ve been since leaving you 45. Already the light is fading, a brilliant orange has descended upon the pristine snow, and regretfully we must leave peter and head to the farm and north pasture to see Megan. Walking to pack out, we first stop in the farmhouse so I can get my geranium and leave a note on Bill’s desk. Just as we pass Hoyts, Laura offers up the idea that we go inside. After leaving notes al over Adam’s d-g cologne, Rutherford’s neat clothes, and Anika’s prayer flags, not to mention the almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels, we head up the path to the farm.
The snow between the wall and the farm barn had not been touched; it was a sheer, soft blanket that ran undisturbed throughout pasture and over resting bed. Just as we are about to begin trudging, we see a tiny figure exit the barn, and, realizing this person to be Jeremy, we yell exuberantly and sprint through the snow, not caring as it enters our sneakers, to the barn.
The sweet, soft smell of hay, and the bassy baas of Michael and Jackson greets us. Jeremy is ecstatic, and his beard is magnificent, after talking with him for a while and letting Clementine (who has grown so much) lick us we continue on to north pasture.
Megan’s twinkly eyes welcome us in to her warm, woodstove-heated home filled with canned goods. We meet shy 42 alum who has come for a visit and is making strawberry rhubarb tarts with Megan.
“I want an update on each of your lives from vacation until now”, Megan says in a demanding yet deeply caring tone. After this from each of us, we chat and chat, all the while the orange sun fades behind us into the white marsh, its red and eventually purple rays piercing across the fields. Before we know it dark has reached, and we must sadly say goodbye. We head down the road to hill top, to visit Abby, who arrived only moments after we did, and Marjo, the two remaining people on the neck we hadn’t seen.
We enter another old, warm house, decorated with plants and worldly things, with Marjo’s soft zydeco music playing in the background. Again we sit and talk, and it is so good to be back, to hear comforting voices that care, and after another astonishing two hours fly by, the utter blackness of out side tell us we must go. Just as we’re putting on our hats and gloves, Megan and the 42er show up, tarts in hand, offering them to us. We chomp on these delicious morsels, hug, and say goodbye. We go to Peter’s house for a finally firm hug then head to Ben’s car, to drive off. In Portland we have dinner at Ben’s house with Sarah Hemphill, hang out a bit with Ben and my friend Mary, and then return to our houses.
Now, XLV, I was great to be back. But returning home I was faced again with the cold reality that it’s over. And while it was fantastic to visit, the cold January air of chewonki was filled with hollowness without you guys. It’s easy to wallow in this truth, it can consume you. There’s something else I’d like to attempt to glean from this experience, something I tell myself most days, that so much blossoms from the end, new relationships, fun reunions, nice chats with teachers, even new things at your schools you dread going to each day. Use your experience to better others, hug more, laugh more, live more, guard Eloise’s flame carefully within, and you will be happy.
-ns
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