Normally, when I thread the stop-and-go traffic of Lynn, break out at last into seven breakneck miles of I-95, and then merge into the rocket-propelled caravan of I-93, headed for New Hampshire and Vermont, it’s with a feeling of regret. I’m leaving a lovely weekend behind, and heading back to a lonely existence (albeit one enlivened by the constant presence of Kiki, around my feet, in my lap, or watching me from her chair) and the normal obligations of an elderly homeowner.
This past Sunday, though, I found myself driving without looking over my shoulder regretfully. Yes, it would be a couple of weeks before I’d see Bea again, discuss the day’s news with the Times spread out on the kitchen table, or chat quietly after supper, she with her mug of tea and I with my demitasse of espresso. But this time my home in Vermont seemed less a dark, empty house and more like a hobbit hole.
Truth is, I was kind of worn down by the holidays. They started on the 20th with my fiftieth and last reading of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol in Hanover. That was followed by a night at the Inn and breakfast at Lou’s (an ancient pleasure) with my son and one granddaughter, who’d flown all the way from Arkansas for the swansong. The very next day, leaving Kiki with the house-sitter, I was off to Nahant for the night, before a morning flight out of Logan for Arkansas. I was delighted to be driving Batty, a small hybrid, but the miles were already adding up.
Arkansas was a crowded round of present-openings, big family dinners, old movies on Netflix, and an epic journey to Missouri to look at an old car I was interested in. I wrote about that last week. I didn’t buy the car, which caused some regret, but saved a world of complications.
We got back to Boston from Arkansas late in the evening of the 27th, and the next morning I was off to Vermont for a day, to do laundry, get a haircut, and write a newspaper column. On the 31st we left Vermont (Kiki was with me this time, to her apparent delight) early enough to drive to Concord, Massachusetts, that afternoon for New Year’s Eve with friends of Bea’s of long standing. Great conversation, and we all stayed awake long enough to make a champagne toast at midnight.
We started the new year with a leisurely breakfast and more conversation. Then it was off again to Nahant through relatively light traffic. It’s always amazed me that people can drive in that traffic every day as a matter of course. Hundreds of us – even thousands – all stream side by side, headed at relatively high speeds for individual destinations, and everyone seems to want to get there first. Bea does our driving in the city, but I do my bit with my right foot on an imaginary brake pedal.
We were at it again next morning, with a trip to the Museum of Fine Arts for a Winslow Homer show. He’s probably my favorite artist; three prints of his Adirondack paintings hang here in my office, and a guide boat, painted to match one of his most famous, “The Blue Boat,” sits in my barn. So that was a trip down Memory Lane, which I took in a wheelchair, courtesy of Bea, who tried hard in the crowded, darkened rooms (watercolors are delicate) not to whack other art lovers in the shins with the foot rests.
Afterward, lunch in a cafeteria (I think there were three, all full) and back into Boston traffic for the run to the foot of the causeway out to the island of Nahant. We’d left Kiki for about six hours. In the manner of dogs, who don’t seem to get upset about anything past, she acted delighted to see us. There followed a nap (an increasingly popular habit of mine), a quiet supper nearby (they served me a bulky roll which will last me here at home till Wednesday), and tea and espresso.
Saturday was a day of rest. We drove or cars one at a time to the car wash, run by a guy who was probably a retired Boston cop, and got them sudsed clean. Home again. A bit of Canadian Mist saw me through to supper with a couple of good friends at the local seafood restaurant, where we can look out the windows at the reflections of the shore lights on the tide flats.
Sunday morning was the usual sweet sorrow. Kiki snuggled quickly into her bed in the back seat. I followed the route that’s now becoming second nature. They say nothing happens in Vermont. As I pointed Batty toward home, I fervently hoped so.
