the house suspended in amber

I'll remember this Christmas for the snow and the chaos of dogs. I'll remember that I gave David a magnesium fire starting gadget and he loved it, and he started a fire that morning and every day after, in front of which would amass a pile of snow-wet boots and scarves and sweaters. This was his second visit to our home in Vermont- he met my parents for the first time last year on Christmas morning, something I've always felt he should receive a reward for- but this is the first time I was able to relax and not worry that he was going to run full steam away when he discovered that my family, like all families, is nuts.

When my sister and I go home, we get a little lost figuring out whether we're still technically children- we're not, but we're my parents children, and sometimes we'll regress just a bit, out of old habit.

I think only the appearance of grandchildren will cement into place a sturdy organization of generations- we'll be the parents, little kids will be little kids, and my parents can be grandparents and get old. It seems suitable that grandparents be old. But for now, my mom and dad are just my mom and dad, nothing else, and when I stop and realize that they're aging, not suspended in time like flies in amber, as they should be, and how one day we'll be celebrating Christmas without them, well, that's just not what I signed up for.

Being home is so wonderful, but thoughts like this drift through my head all day long like passing snow flurries, and make me feel a certain sharp anxiety that is much more muted during my normal life. In addition, my dad is going through an intense phase of Anglophilia, and every night he tries to get us to watch British comedies, and my mom refuses, and the whole family erupts in an argument that leaves dad acting all wounded and everyone else on edge, except for David, who, from his place on the couch, seems to float above it all.

Such are the holidays.

But mostly, it's books and sledding and cousins. It's an entire extended family wearing Darn Tough Vermont socks, tromping through the woods and drinking champagne around 5ish. It's endless bananagrams, maple syrup bottles in the stockings, cherry juice and Cabot Cheddar and that certain joy that comes from watching short legged dogs try and hop through deep snow.

But this Christmas has come to an end and tomorrow morning we strike for home. Leaving is always wretched, like that terrible moment when you declare your hot bath has run its course and you have to get out of the tub, shivering inside your towel in the freezing cold house. Only one hundred times worse.  

But there's some relief that comes along with it, because deep inside you know you can't live forever in the bath, alone and peaceful in the steam. Eventually you have to return to your real life and get back to Getting Things Done.

That's where I'm at now. The last night in the warm house in the deep snow, itching to get back to my life and wanting to stay here forever. 

And now to announce the winner of the Vermont Themed Mystery Prize! Reading about all your Hygge was so fun- my favorite prompt yet. And when the post-Christmas depression rolls in, I'll read them all again for the comfort. Thank you for writing. I wish I could send you all a box of maple pops.

 Congratulations Jess! I agree that the best route to Hygge is to decline any invitations, and dive under the covers with some books and movies. And yes, coziness is next to godliness for sure! Please email thewildercoast@gmail.com and I'll get your mystery prize in the mail.

Now, I'll be driving from Ithica to Asheville all day on Monday, but I'll see you here very soon. Merry Christmas everyone, and to those who suffer from the post Christmas depression, best of luck, I'm right there with you. Feel free to reach out.

Hygge! & a Christmas Mystery Prize

It's Monday, it's late at night, and this is the very first time I've been able to steel myself away from all the Hygge. Hygge is a Danish word with no English translation, but it means something like 'being warm and cozy inside while outside it is dark.' And it's my very favorite thing in the entire world.

I made it to Vermont after fifteen hours of white-knuckling the steering wheel through a rainstorm which did not let up once between Durham, North Carolina and White River Junction, Vermont.  My route took me through Manhattan, which I did not become aware of until I was crossing the Tappan Zee bridge, listening to the audio version Growing up Duggar because I have a morbid fascination with that bunch, and wondering, "What the hell happened to Pennsylvania?"

Now I understand that the route from Durham to home is quite different than the route from Asheville to home. One includes a lovely glide through Pennsylvania Dutch country, and the other, a miserable crawl through the Bronx at 13 miles an hour.

Once I crossed over into Vermont, the rain turned to ice and coated the empty highway with a slippery gloss, and then my car couldn't make it up my road and we slid backwards, the dog leaping out of her seat and into my lap, coming to a crunching stop against a snowbank. We had to go the rest of the way on foot.

My dad, who had waited up for us, was very agitated because he doesn't like when I drive long distances, and while he waited he'd watched the Wolf of Wall Street which he found very upsetting. In the morning I found out that my car had slid off the road because no one had sanded or plowed the road because two Vermont townships were having a sort of turf war, and the whole thing was a big mess.

But it was worth it for all the Hygge that's been happening since I made it home.

The snow has been coming down for days and the sledding is perfect. David went into town and bought a smooth-bottomed sled called the Easy Glider which can ramp up to terrifying speeds and is impossible to control. My brother in law claims to have broken his neck on it. Dave has an affinity for sledding through the woods, which is actually terribly dangerous. Today while we were out playing in the field, he put his arm around me, surveyed the steep, thickly wooded hill behind our house and said cheerfully, "If I'd grown up here, I definitely would have died."

We've spent these days before Christmas in the woods, in the general store in town choosing buckets of candy for our little cousins' presents, kicking at rat-king-esque piles of snarling corgis when they fight, baking, playing banana grams, and listening to my dad say things like, "It was too easy to find a parking spot, Kid. Small town life is decaying," And "steak houses are a cult, kid," and "life just gets worse and worse, kid. Worse and worse."

But still, such Hygge!

And now if you don't mind, it is cold outside and inside this warmly lit house, there is coziness to attend to. But first! In keeping with our Make More Mail initiative, let's do a giveaway- a Christmas Mystery prize! And if you don't celebrate Christmas, you can call it something else, like a Cozy Fun Pack.

To win, simply leave a comment and tell me what sort of Hygge you're up to this winter.

Are you drinking porter in a ski cabin in the Grand Tetons? Pouring tea in your city apartment? Curling up with a good book under the blanket? Snuggling away with your companion watching a little something on the TV? 

The winner will receive a Vermont themed mystery prize. It may be delicious, it might be fun, it could even be drinkable, it's bound to be rustic, and I promise, it will enhance your Hygge. 

I have a feeling that this week, there will be a smaller group of us writing. The holidays are a festive and busy time. But that's okay. It will be a small group of good friends and I'm happy with that. Small is cozy.

 I hope you are having a very warm and very entertaining time, wherever you are and whatever you're doing! I cannot wait to read about your coziness.  I like you all a lot, have a safe, peaceful and hygge Holiday.

The Worst Journey in the World / drawing winner

I'm going to tell you what happened and I'm going to make it quick. I promise you, you won't want any more details.

Over the past week, I've enjoyed reading about why you love where you live. So much so, in fact, that I was inspired to knit your words together with mine, and write a whole post about all of us, scattered across the map, going about our happy everyday business. I asked for you to send me a photo of the place you call home, and I was rewarded with beautiful shots of snow and sunsets, street corners and oceans and outhouses. (That last one was from a Vermonter.)

The timing was perfect. I was about to embark on my annual Christmas Expedition to the North: a 17 hour drive from Asheville to Vermont, just the dog and I, listening to audio books and eating a bag of snacks picked with careful deliberation from Whole Foods. The snack bag is a splurge, bought with cash from the AB Tech textbook exchange, a Christmas present to myself.

Because the journey is long and the days are short, I drive in darkness for the majority of the trip. Sometimes, sailing alone down interstate 95 in the blackness, a certain loneliness will seep through the car windows and fill the space around me. On either side of the highway, the land rushing by looks bleak and unfamiliar, occasionally illuminated by fast food restaurants. I begin to feel very far from home.

This year, things would be different. I heard from many of you who live in Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Maryland, and all up and down the Northeast Corridor. Now as I drive I can picture your bustling town just over the hill, the woods laced with running trails, your five roommates all cooking dinner together, and you at the grocery store, or at the late night coffee shop with your head bent over your work, drinking an Americano. Your words made the long road between my home and my other home feel familiar, friendly.

This year I broke up the trip into three days. I injured my back while putting my mountain bike on top of my car ("a bike accident that involved a car", is how I like to put it), and I can't sit down for long periods of time without pain roaring down my spine. My first stop is Durham, to pick up David's Christmas present I'd commissioned from his best friend, Ann. I planned to spend the night with David's parents, then drive up to Ithica to see my sister. On the third day I'd make the final push to Vermont.

The last week was a rigorous one as I doggedly tried to keep up with final exams. I had a test every day and ended up with straight A's, even in Chemistry, which I thought would do me in. So it had been a few days since I'd last posted. As I flew around the house getting things ready for departure, I tried to write something about the upcoming trip, cheerful sentences like 'the dog and I are about to do what we do best- drive!' But I couldn't swing it. Too many other things to do.

Finally, we pulled out of the driveway and made our first stop at Whole Foods.

I would tell you about all the nice things I chose to sustain me over the next three days, but it would make me too sad now. Let me just say this: I am so skilled at selecting road snacks that when I drove across the country, from Seattle to Asheville, I was never even tempted to stop for food.

When I left the store, the bag was heavy and I was brimming with optimism and holiday cheer. I sang along to the radio as we pulled onto the interstate. The dog sat upright in the passenger seat, smiling.

Then, not two hours into the trip, it hit me: this overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and the desperate urge to shut my eyes. I rolled down the windows to let the cold wind whip me awake. At 5:30 in the evening after a good night of sleep, this was completely out of the blue. Maybe it was the stress of exams hitting me after the fact, or the accumulation of medicines I'd been taking for my back.

By the time I made it to the Greensboro countryside to pick up Dave's present, I knew things were about to get ugly. This was no post-finals fatigue. I walked into Ann's house, and there on the mantle was the gorgeous knit piece that she'd dreamed up, designed and been working tirelessly on. She had put the final touches on the frame just a few hours before I arrived. As I stumbled in the front door she was holding her breath with excitement, anticipating my reaction.

"I think I'm going to barf," I said, and ran into the bathroom.

I threw up like, right after this.

Half an hour later, I was driving the winding dark road back to the highway, David's present carefully wrapped in plastic in the back seat. Ann had given me pieces of crystallized ginger and offered me a barf bag for the road. But for some stupid, illogical reason, completely unfathomable to me now, I'd turned her down. 

Twice on that country road I pulled over and dry heaved into the ditch, but nothing came up. I felt dread as I merged onto the wide, busy interstate. "Eighteen miles," I chanted. "That's all I have to do. I can survive for eighteen miles."

I lasted four miles. And then it was all happening. I tried to get off. I safely merged three lanes over and reached the off ramp but it was too late. I grabbed the only bag in the front seat- the one from Whole Foods full of my snacks and coconut waters, and threw up with a terrific slosh. The bag sat warmly on my lap until I found a gas station.

Crying and wiping my nose, I got out of the car and threw the bag and all its contents into a trash can. I bought a blue flavored Gatorade. I managed the rest of the trip to Dave's parents house without further incident, and that's where I am today. Marooned in Durham, too sick to continue.

As it turns out, David also got sick that evening, as did a number of our friends who attended the same company Christmas party last Friday. One that was richly catered by a local restaurant. "We never get to eat this kind of food," I recall whispering to Dave. "Dig in!"

So we all ended up with food poisoning. But I am the only one who ended up with food poisoning at 70 miles per hour.

For more photos of this girl and this dog and all the fun they have, find me on Instagram @melinadream

****

This week we are taking a break from the giveaways, for reasons that should be apparent. Next Monday we'll be back with a Christmas Mystery Prize (or two).

Until then, I'll be inching my way up North, slowly and less exuberantly than I'd intended. I look forward to that moment when I can sit down at the Cafe in White River Junction, Vermont, watch the snow pile up and type out the post about Home with all your words and photos.

Thanks to everyone who entered the drawing. And thanks to Appalatch, a company of true integrity and talent. The winner of the Custom Fit Sweater is....

Congratulations Grace! I understand that love of change- Vermont has four distinct seasons and the years felt dull without them when I moved away. Minneapolis sounds lovely, and you seem to be in good company- there were a wealth of comments from some very content people in Minnesota. Please email thewildercoast@gmail.com and we will get you all sorted out.

Thank you everyone for reading and writing. The make more mail initiative has been a smash hit so far! I hope you're having a safe and warm Holiday, and I'll see you back here in a few days.

think of a place

Thank you this week to Steve and Paula. You make it possible. Keep an eye on your mail!

I love it here at night, when the whole neighborhood is asleep but I am awake. I can hear the strains of The Crane Wife coming from the living room where my books are laid out on the table, the pair of ugly terriers at the end of the street barking at the night, and every now and then a siren wailing from town a few blocks away. Other than that, it is remarkably quiet. 

When we first bought the house, we spent a week pulling up the heavy grey carpet, which was spongey with decay. Now I can glide from room to room in the lamplight, not making a sound on the polished wood. 

We wanted to live in a place where we could walk everywhere. This proximity usually translates into noise, the sounds of traffic and people shouting as they come home from the bars.  The quiet of our street is unexpected, a bonus. In Seattle I lived in eleven different houses and each one was on a roaring bus line; at least that's how I remember it. 

I do miss Seattle, but I don't talk about it, because who doesn't miss a place? It's surprising to me how I miss it- not in words but in vivid and specific images. I'll wake up in the morning and a picture will have emerged, floating belly up and glistening in my head: a ferryboat lit up at night. A charcoal sky with a torrent of water rushing down the street, swamping the gutters, the sound of a city swallowing itself. 

In some ways our neighborhood, West Asheville, is like Seattle shrunk down to the head of a pin. There is one of every thing I need, instead of hundreds.

Instead of water everywhere there are mountains that turn purple at sunset.

But it doesn't have the slickness of Seattle. It costs less to live here, and it lacks the brilliant shine of a city well nourished by Microsoft, Amazon and Boeing. The houses I pass as I walk into town are small and, for the most part, falling apart, with leaning door frames and sunken roofs. Their inhabitants sit on the porches and smoke cigarettes. They'll nod as I pass by, but not always. 

The main street of West Asheville is a mix of new restaurants and empty brick storefronts. There is an organic food co-op, and a tiny shop called the Asheville Bee Charmer where you can sample honey from a row of tiny jars. There is Buffalo Nickel, a restaurant that glows invitingly each evening but always seems to be empty. The old barber shop with its striped pole rubs elbows with the West End Bakery, crowded and fragrant and loud with voices and the hiss of the espresso machine. The ceiling is covered in cotton spider webs from halloween, which was five weeks ago, and the glass cases are crammed with so many cakes and tarts and round loaves of bread you wonder why a small town bakery could ever need so much. 

Although, is Asheville a small town? It hasn't decided that yet. That's one thing I love about it; it can be a small town when you need it to be a small town, and a much bigger one when you need something new to look at. I shared this place with an ex boyfriend for a year and, conscious of one another's corners, we never had a run in.

At our favorite bar, Pour, an entire wall of different beers flow from silver taps when you wave a wristband in front of them. There are darts and shuffleboard and a giant, life-sized Jenga game that collapses loudly every ten minutes, sending a roar of screams and laughter throughout the place.  The cafe where I study is in the same building. When I am done for the day I can pack up my papers and step smartly into the next stage of the evening without even going outside. 

There is is a bookstore, a cider house, a pinball museum. There is Ingles and shabby Save-a-lot food stores and the sprawling new Whole Foods that glitters with salt out near the box stores. UNCA is tucked behind the botanical gardens, while just across the river and up a hill you'll find the squat, colorless buildings of the community college where I go to school. From its perch I can look out over the Biltmore Estate- America's biggest house, a castle, with its sprawling, 8,000 acre grounds. It is brilliantly lit up for Christmas, but I only know that because of a billboard on I-40. It costs seventy dollars just to visit.    

There is much more to this town and to our house, with all its cheerful oddities, but I have plenty of time to tell you about it later. Looking at the calendar I can see that it's Monday, and I have something up my sleeve for you.  

Photo Credit: Appalatch.com

This week I am partnering with Appalatch, a local clothing company that makes exquisite wool shirts, sweaters, capes and scarves. We have a unique and lovely giveaway to brighten these dark days and keep you warm this winter.

Photo Credit: Appalatch.com

First a word about Appalatch. I am enamored with this company not only for their luxurious, handsomely made products, but also for their dedication to environmental responsibility. Every piece of their operation, from the farm where their wool is sourced to the textile mill, is certifiably sustainable. Their clothes are soft, long lasting and handcrafted in small batches.

This week we are giving away a gift card for a custom-knit sweater, valued at $189 dollars.

Appalatch will take your measurements, chat with you about your specific wants, and then custom knit a gorgeous sweater just for you. "Clothing companies tend to generalize our shapes, and tell us what is good and what is bad," the marketing director, Ella, told me over coffee. "This sweater is designed precisely to fit you." Literally, a perfect fit.

In addition to the giveaway, from now until December 17th, go to Appalatch.com and enter coupon code WILDERCOAST for 15% off.

In keeping with the theme of 'A Perfect Fit,' this week's prompt was inspired by a photo, taken by Maggie Jones. Maggie loves where she lives, and does a terribly good job of making me homesick for Washington State. Follow her on Instagram- Theruralroost. She comes highly recommended. 

To be entered in the giveaway, leave a comment and tell me one reason why you love where you live. 

I know we can't all live in our ideal place, but it's good to recognize at least one thing that you makes you happy where you are.  I'm looking forward to reading them and taking a virtual trip around the country and beyond. I savor these comments. They're like jewels or chocolates to me. 

The winner will be chosen at random and announced in one week. Go to town and good luck!