A chorus of roosters and barking dogs greeted the pink sun while I
started up the right-wheel-drive Suzuki van with the soft tire. Reggae
music on the radio. The smell of burning palms and coconut husks filled
the air, kettles and cauldrons on the boil. It was warm but not hot. It
was perfect. And, as if perfect could get any better, my primary chore
of the morning was to check the surf and text the conditions to Melanie
Pitcher. Imagine that. Ah, Barbados. There was of course one small
blemish on the experience. I was leaving this paradise in a few hours.
Fast forward to this morning, though I've skipped a slew of details
about yesterday's long journey home. Dogs, check; Rooster, check,
although it is impossible to hear his crow through my tightly closed,
frosted window; songbirds (a handful of hungry chickadees protesting the
feeder's empty status), check. Palm trees and turquoise water...not so
much. Waves? Nope. Chore? Not nearly as appealing as a tropical surf
check. I emptied four loaves of bread, one package of donuts and a pack
of garlic bread sticks into a container. I looked at the thermometer: 22
degrees F. Could be a lot worse I know, but it was still a rough
reality given my previous morning. I looked outside and saw snowflakes.
That's OK too, for it could be freezing rain. I put on socks for the
first time in eight days. I put on boots instead of flip-flops, a wool
hat, a heavy sweatshirt over a heavy sweatshirt and looked for gloves.
Hmmm, can't find any. It's not that cold I told myself. I stepped
outside.
It really wasn't too bad. My sunburned nose felt comforted somewhat by
the chill. I walked down the hill to the barn, opened the gate, and
dumped the day-old baked goods into the trough, which had been dusted
overnight by a very light snow. I approached the barn door and a new
chorus greeted me, a chorus of oinks and snorts and chicken clucks and
hissing ducks. The three not-so-little pigs were eager. They cared not
about my weeklong absence. They charged the trough and delighted in the
bread but looked thoroughly disappointed by the relative shortage of
donuts in today's breakfast. They definitely did not like the garlic
bread sticks. I gave them some water and then turned my attention to the
chickens and ducks, topping off their cracked corn and water. My hands
were growing colder.
I stood for a while looking at the frozen pond and the snowy mountains
that surround us here. It was quiet now, quite still the way winter in
the woods can be. I looked up at the sizable chunk of snow that
threatens to drop off the barn roof at any minute and make loads of work
for me. I took a deep breath and marveled at modern life. In 24 hours I
had gone from tropical paradise to boreal paradise and despite my
initial dismay at returning to this wintry place, I smiled and thanked
God that I am here and alive. I put my hands in my sweatshirt pockets
and walked back up the slick driveway to the house. I will miss my
favorite warm place until next year (hopefully no longer than that). I
will miss Oistin's fish fry and Banks beer and the emerald waters that
yield such wonderful waves. I will miss the friends I've made there.
But, in the end, I will delight in this place I call home, get excited
for the next snowfall, and soon go surfing on the mountain. As soon as I
can find my damned gloves.
John and Liz Mansfield live in Granville, VT.
